Keep it a Mystery
by Zerbinetta
Summary: Modern retelling: A journalist searches for the truth behind the mysterious composer, becoming his experiment. The magic singing doll he had created becomes his undoing as the mysterious composer, known only as Erik, discoveres his love for Christine Daaé
1. Chapter 1

While I am normally against modern retellings, I got a fresh idea for a phanphic and it involved things I could put only in a modern setting. This is a rather original tale and while I admit that it might be influenced by the wonderful story the Girl Next Door by Kat097, which I wholeheartedly recommend, things will certainly be different and the main storyline will be slightly closer to that of the book than that of a modern retelling. I like to mix stuff, this will be partially book-like, partially musical-like. Hopefully, this will be a story that will satisfy me as the author and you sa the readers.I think I might need a beta reader or two for this, though, so if anyone would care to volunteer, I would be grateful. This is a relatively long chapter, establishing the "scene". And yes, Christine is passive when it comes to her personal life in this phic, but quite dedicated to her job. You'll see. (hint hint: read and review!)

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**Chapter 1**

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"Ten twenty-nine. Close one this time, Chris." Jammes Thurman said with a wink and a mischievous smile as she took the paper the rather panting woman handed her. "Lay off the stress, you haven't missed a deadline since… ever!" she said, shaking her head.

Christine laughed. She had been working for the magazine _Deacon_ for nearly four years now, and ever since she had started, she had been a first-class employee, as her boss, Mr. Lefévre, would constantly remind the rest of the journalists sitting in close cubicles. The boss was French, everyone knew, from somewhere near Paris, but he left the country some time ago for the English speaking world. Thus he was hard to please.

"Thanks, Jammes." she said, smiling faintly.

"Just relax, honey." The secretary noted, curling a finger in her hair as she folded the paper and glanced at her computer to check something.

Nodding, Christine waved goodbye and set out for a cup of coffee. She had worked on that article the entire night, but the day was still ahead of her. Hopefully, Lefévre would be happy with it. She had done her best and that had sufficed until now. As Jammes said so often, however, the English really didn't care about what was written in the papers as long as they could unfold them with the classical style.

Christine Daaé herself was Swedish, but she hadn't seen her homeland ever since she was very little, so she barely remembered it. At the age of twenty-six, she had all that a modern woman may desire: she had finished college with flying colors, had a job that many would envy and a promotion not too far away, as everyone said, and a wonderful apartment with a view of the more cultural part of London. She herself didn't consider herself that lucky, however.

Her father had died before she had finished high school. They had known of the cancer long before it happened, but Christine was still devastated when she had been called to the hospital and a grim-faced doctor told her the truth. She hadn't cried, but proceeded to lock herself in her room and not surface until at least a week later. She had scarcely eaten, much to the concern of Mrs. Valerius, the closest person to a mother she had ever known, who had come over to see if she was alright and chose to stay with her.

Eventually, Christine gathered strength enough to face the consequences of his death and returned to society, indifferent to the sympathy and pity she had been offered. As her father had wished, she was placed into the care of Mrs. Valerius. The old woman had been their friend ever since the Daaé family came to England and sort of adopted both of them before they had gathered enough money to find a home of their own. Money was scarce, though, especially because Gustave Daaé was a musician – a violinist. The Valerius household was a pleasing place to grow up at, however, and Christine never regretted having to buy her clothes at second hand shops or that she couldn't go to the amusement park as often as other kids.

Christine had been a cheerful, almost bubbly child before, and her father had often called her his little angel. After his death, she had lost her passion and her happiness. She eventually managed to find comfort in art. Even as a child, she had been very artistic. Accompanied by her father's violin, she had sung songs with the pure sweetness only an innocent child could create. His death silenced the music – Christine didn't sing anymore. She found a different outlet of emotions when she needed it. She started writing a diary. Eventually, all of her free time was occupied by writing. She wrote the legends of the North, the stories of children, tales of her own.

She had decided to become a writer. She had talent, she knew of that – her teachers at school always praised her essays and her works – but Mrs. Valerius chose her eighteenth birthday as the proper moment to remind Christine that writers, unless they write a bestseller, are usually poor. That if she wanted to write, there were other ways to do it. And she had left Christine with several newspapers and magazines, each very different, so that she could decide what appealed to her the most. In the end, Christine remembered just how poor they were simply because her father followed the artistic path and forgot that music didn't feed the hungry.

Talent, she had. Need, she also had. And now she had something to drive her – Mrs. Valerius was getting old and needed care. She wanted to repay her guardian for taking care of her. Once she had finished college, she had raided the newspapers for job offers. She had chosen _Deacon_ purely because the name appealed to her somehow. She sat down and wrote an article about the recent decisions of the USA in Iraq, adding some explanations and opinions here and there. The hand-written article she had copied and then sent to _Deacon_ along with a job application. The next day, the article was in the paper, with her name as the author and she found a letter inviting her for a consultation with her would-be-boss. She got the job almost at once.

She devoted herself to her work and almost caused a revolution in the magazine. Soon she was allowed to comment on everything she wanted, as long as Lefévre approved. Some commented that he favored her because she wasn't English, like him. But the amount of other job offers from rival papers she was receiving spoke against that. Yet Christine was satisfied. Eventually, she had managed to save enough money to buy a flat of her own, since Mrs. Valerius refused to leave her old house. Nevertheless, Christine would visit at least for ten minutes almost every day and if she couldn't visit, she called.

She became a workaholic. Her work became her life, but she always wrote down thoughts of her own in a "diary" of sorts. She hadn't quite given up that one ambition, one dream that she might yet create a story that would capture the hearts of people and allow her to be what she had wanted to be ever since she ended up alone. Thus her social life was almost dead.

Besides Mrs. Valerius, she had only one closer friend – Meg Giry, who she had met during an amateur photo exhibition ages ago, when she was a teenager. Meg was her age and also had her dream – she wanted to be a professional photographer. Unlike Christine, however, she decided to pursue her dream. Meg occasionally sold photos now to magazines and Christine managed to get her an appointment with Lefévre months after they had met and made him hire her as an external worker. Meg was different from Christine, never having experienced a loss – she was always an optimist and tried to get Christine to leave her flat occasionally. Her mother, Mrs. Antoinette Giry, was a single mother, but not one of those you have to pity. She had a strong personality and an even stronger will. Meg inherited some of that… and thus her arguments with her mother regarding her choice of career were pretty fierce.

Christine sighed as she poured the coffee into her favorite mug. At least she had the most important of her day behind her, now she could relax and surf the web for a while, searching for other news. She remembered Meg wanted to drag her to the movies on Friday and sighed. It was probably a cover-up for a blind date and dear sweet Miss Giry would vanish suddenly, remembering something she had to do right about at the exact moment. As wonderful a person to hang around with as Meg might be, it was irritating that she constantly pestered her about her love life. Last time, she had noted that she had met a really nice guy at an exhibition, rather artsy, shy, and she, as the perfect friend, had decided that it might be wonderful to meet him. In the end, Christine had submitted and decided to attempt to be polite and refuse equally politely after the date. They had gone to a restaurant, but Tom, the guy in question, ditched her before the bill had been paid. Christine never found out whether he had been so shy or such a bastard, but assumed the latter.

Meg would always shrug and say: "Don't worry, Chrissy." But Christine worried. She and Meg had different tastes in many things, men being one of them. And Christine always reminded her friend that she didn't need a man in her life to be happy. "Don't live a routine, don't be a slave." Was Meg´s quote when it came to that subject. "Life is change – and it's short."

Sipping her coffee, Christine sat down and frowned with distaste. Too much sugar. She had gotten distracted, apparently. It might help raise her mood, though, she figured, so she decided to sip it slowly. She turned on her computer and connected to the internet, browsing her favorite websites. Naturally, all of them involved work, work, work. She preferred to get the job done and stay in touch with the world at least this way. Only then could she move to art websites, out of sheer interest. Though she herself wasn't an artist anymore, Christine had a great passion for art still.

A couple of minutes later, the polyphonic symphonic version of _Exsultate, Jubilate_ rang out of her purse. Christine dug through her papers after tearing her eyes from the screen and quickly searched for her cellphone. She found it and smiled when she saw who was calling. Typical Meg, call when you least expect it and when you have tons of other things to do. At least she was used to this by now. Hopefully, she was wrong about the whole blind date idea, though.

"Hey Megster." Christine said with a faint smile as she answered the call. "I thought you might call before coming, I heard the photos for the new movie reviews are to be turned in today."

"Hey yourself, Chris." A mock-annoyed but clearly cheerful young female voice answered. "I'm downtown right now, I've got a few hours to go before I have to get to work. I'm double-checking out what they've got on Friday. We should go see Ice Age 2 – I know it's really a cartoon, but that saber-tongued squirrel is in it, and I could use a few laughs." Meg was also a freak when it came to all things digital, from photos to animation.

Christine laughed quietly. "Whatever you want. As long as the number of the movie equals the number of people who will be coming, and by that I mean you and I." There was a brief silence on the other end. "No guys, Meg. Not after all the attempts."

On the other end of the line, Meg pouted. Her grand master plan to hook Christine up with some nice guy was failing once again. Despite her workaholic nature, Christine wasn't invisible to guys – she was pale-skinned, almost wraith-like, her blue eyes seemed to change shades depending on the day and she had long blonde hair that curled in ways that made Meg very envious. Her features were soft, her figure was slender. She wasn't classically beautiful, but she had the kind of innocent look and girlishness to her that gave her the look of a lost princess and took away a few years. But she genuinely smiled scarcely and most of the time seemed lost in her own mind and appeared a bit sad.

"Oh, fine, be that way, Chris. I'll have the last laugh yet when you go gaga because of some guy." Meg said gleefully.

"That ain´t happening, sister." Christine noted, "Anyway, I'll be waiting for you. And try not to be late this time, hmm?"

"Yadda, yadda, yadda, I'll be there before you realize it, girl. See you then!" Meg hung up. Christine shook her head and returned the phone into her bag. During this small conversation, she had probably secured her safety for the night, because while Meg was a sneaky prankster, she was also always true to her word. She closed a pop-up with the slightest annoyed frown.

_How many millionth visitors can one site have?_

"Christine," Christine looked up to see the editor, Elliot Rémy, handing several papers to her over the wall of her cubicle. "Go through this, please, just in case. The info has been updated, so it might need a few more lines, unfortunately, nothing all that major."

With a sigh and a nod, Christine thanked him and took the papers. They were her article about the latest statistics about avian influenza, meant for today's edition, but apparently, some statistics had been changed and in order to be precise, she had to change some dates and facts. It shouldn't take her long, but it was still work. Tiresome work.

"Another thing –" Again, Christine looked up, "Jammes says you are to check your mailbox."

"Thanks, Elliot." He was out of earshot almost as soon as she finished the thank you. Christine minimized her browser window and opened her Outlook Express. Every employee had a top-notch computer with the newest Windows and once the latest systems would be tested, they would be getting them.

One of the things Christine liked was that the journalists all had their unique nicknames for the email system they had, though their names were in brackets on a list each of them had saved, just in case anyone forgot. The company had been saving money and had had Yahoo! or Hotmail email accounts before they got a website of their own but then wasted no time "awarding" everyone with their own address. Christine had been fortunate to choose her own username before any of the sneaky programmers had a chance to choose one for her. Not all ended up that well and it was a slight joke to give funny usernames to new people.

Now, however, Christine turned out the mail program as she had been instructed to and found a new message there. Her eyes went wide for a moment.

**From: DLefévre (at) deacon. org**

**To: LittleLotte (at) deacon. org**

**Subject: Don't panic, Miss Daaé, nothing is wrong**

Christine exhaled deeply. Lefévre sure knew how employees usually reacted to seeing a message from him. Just the sight of it showed that something was seriously wrong, they had messed up or worse, they were getting fired. She saw that he had actually gotten her name right – most people had no idea how to spell her surname and she often wasted precious minutes spelling it for them. And even if they knew how to spell it, it was always with an e instead of an é. It seemed the English thing to do, apparently, so it soon ceased bothering her.

Despite the warning, she was still slightly jumpy. Hopefully, nothing was wrong with her article. Lefévre was nothing if not precise and informed about all things. But she hadn't missed the deadline, so… Christine shook her head. He said nothing was wrong, so it had to be something else. Closing her eyes for a moment, she opened the message with an audible "click" from the mouse, since she pressed the button a bit harder than was needed.

_Miss Daaé,_

_I hope you got the corrections from Mr. Rémy – bird flu might be a common topic these days, but you know the drill. Who writes most and best is the best. As for the deadline today, splendid job, as usual, though I have a few corrections. Politics move so swiftly, you know the deal. My secretary, Miss Thurman, will deal with that._

_I'm emailing you because our main culture journalist, Nick Rivers, is doing a hands-on review of the Queen's birthday celebration tomorrow, so he will be unable to do the job I had scheduled for him. Apparently, the Royal Opera House has changed their date for the premiere of "La Grue" and it starts this Saturday, 8:00 pm. The first premiere is for sponsors and the press and we already have a ticket booked. Since Rivers is unable to go there, having booked that particular job for himself ages ago, we need someone there._

_You're more than smart enough to put two and two together. Come pick up the ticket before lunch, Miss Thurman is dealing with the change with the ticket office as we "speak"._

_Regards_

_Daniel Lefévre_

Christine blinked. She reread the message and shook her head. She was to attend the premiere of a new opera and write an article about it? No way. That was out of her league. She stood up as she closed her mailbox and turned off her screen. No way, she repeated in her mind as she headed towards the boss's office again. No way.

Jammes was examining her nail polish as Christine arrived and looked up with a smile. "The boss said you'd come ASAP. I dealt with the tickets already, no worries."

"Jammes, I didn't even accept the job yet!" Christine said, frustrated.

"The boss is the boss, he said you'd do it." Jammes said chirpily. "If you care to wait a mo till I call him, you can go in and rage and storm." The receiver already in her hand, Jammes dialed the needed number for the office right next to her table. "Mr. Lefévre? Christine Daaé is here about the assignment. Yes. Yes, I know. Alright, sending her in." She motioned to Christine to come in before even lowering the receiver.

Christine mouthed a "thanks" and opened the door, entering a modestly but elegantly furnished office on the fourth floor of the building. Daniel Lefévre, a man of 54 years, was a plainly dressed, bespectacled man who could always find a mistake in everything English. He was strict and, like Christine, a workaholic, preferred the peace and quiet of the office rather than work in terrain. He and Christine got on rather well. This time, however, Lefévre frowned and raised a hand to silence Christine before she even managed to open her mouth to start objecting.

"Miss Daaé, judging by the unpleasant look on your face, I can easily deduce why you're here. Now before you object, remember that I have faith in your work. You have what it takes – no excuse is getting you out of this one."

"But Mr. Lefévre, this is completely out of my league!" Christine quickly said, "I do politics, world events, not art! If Nick is out of the question, try someone else from that department – Deborah, Miranda, Fred. All of them do art-related stuff and the last article about the church vs. Dan Brown was really good!"

Lefévre shook his head. "Miss Ember and Miss Redwood are better with non-classical art and Mr. Tane is indisposed. Besides, none of the art department have much knowledge about operatic music and you seem to listen to only classical, from what I hear." Christine had to admit that the boss really saw and knew everything when it came to his territory.

"That doesn't mean I understand opera." Christine objected, folding her arms and throwing her last card. Lefévre obviously didn't buy it – she was a really bad liar.

He leaned forward in his chair and put both of his hands on the table, almost like a bank employee would at their desk. "Miss Daaé, I'll be honest with you. I'm certain the rumors have reached you that I intend to promote you. The truth is, I do – but I want to be certain you can handle it. You have talent, no doubt, but you need to see the job from all the angles. That involves commenting art. I considered sending you to a sports match, but I imagine young women rarely enjoy such things. It was a choice between culture and sports and I think you'll agree that I did you a slight favor by choosing culture."

Christine had to agree that her knowledge of sports besides ice-skating was very limited. And she hadn't skated for ages, so she imagined she had lost that skill. After all, she had been a kid when she had learned it. Opera, she understood. But she preferred classics – this one was apparently a new composition, since she didn't recognize the title at all. She wasn't certain she should really trust the opera house's choice.

Still, Lefévre confirmed that he would promote her! That was great news! It would certainly mean a pay rise and she could probably choose her own topics to write about from that moment on. She didn't know the size of the promotion, but it would certainly be a leap in her career.

Sighing, Christine nodded, admitting defeat. She had to do it, so she would do it. "You win." She said, lowering her head briefly. "I'll do it, if you really can't send anyone else."

With a satisfied smirk though without rudeness, Lefévre told her the precise time and address where she should be. "Miss Thurman will write it down for you, along with the names of the managers – it's highly probable that you'll be meeting them and speaking with them during the breaks and at the "party" afterwards. The crème de la crème will be there, so I expect that you will be properly dressed for the occasion."

Christine paled. She didn't really have a proper formal dress and she couldn't go there even in her best clothes. This would mean a lot of gleeful squealing from Meg and visiting a lot of shops. She understood herself dismissed, so she left the office. Jammes was talking on the phone as she came to her table and merely scribbled a note quickly and handed it to her before returning to her conversation.

Christine returned to her desk and glanced at the work she had to finish yet. Plus there were several important messages in her mailbox when she checked again. She sighed and dug out her cellphone again. Better to get the "Meg squealing fit" over with through the phone than wasting precious minutes and having to endure it once Meg would actually arrive. Well, the least it would do would be minimize the squealing fit.

_Fashion emergency, Meg, L. wants me to go to an opera premiere this weekend and write a review for it. I have no dress for a snob party and you know every shop in town. Thankies –Chris_

With the feeling of foreboding, as if a volcano was about to explode, Christine sent the message. She barely had time to sit down and toss the phone into her bag before the tones signaling a reply beeped.

_Squeal-o-rama! Chris, I know just where to look! I'm on my way, be with you in 10 minutes tops, I'll drop off those pics and we'll grab some lunch and get outta there for some action. You'll be the belle of the ball, Christirella! Your fairy godmother Meganette will have you ready to roll in no time!_

Christine decided to turn off the cell just in case. Either she had done something very good or very bad. Hopefully it would get Meg´s mind off playing matchmaker for a while. Safely tucking the note from Jammes into the pocket of her jacket, she returned to the computer and opened another window of Mozilla Firefox. She had to Google this opera before anything else would happen. She liked to be prepared for work in terrain.

Ten minutes, many pop-ups and one virus threat alert later, she frowned deeply. Her search had been as fruitful as if she would have been searching for the top secret plans of the world terrorist organizations. No information leaks, no overviews. Someone sure knew how to keep their secrets, she thought.

At last, she found a link that sounded hopeful. She clicked with slight anticipation and then sighed, supporting her head with her arm and digging her fingers in her hair. The website she had found read:

_La Grue – opera in three acts, coming soon_


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the reviews, they were awesome! More action enters in this chapter! I took Leroux!Meg as my inspiration for the Meg in this phic.And I think using Philip instead of Philippe was a good choice, since you simply can´t have everyone with French names. I kept the "de" only to emphasise his position. Enrinye begged me to involve Buquet, so I did, hopefully to your satisfaction. Still, I would appreciate a beta, if anyone would care to volunteer. Thanks in advance.

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**Chapter 2**

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The amount of noise Meg was making was more than enough to alert the entire floor of her arrival. Christine only looked up, a bit tiredly, still slightly irritated by the failure of her searching. Meg Giry, age 26, was one of the loudest and sassiest people most of the employees of the _Deacon _had ever met. Short, skinny, with jet-black shoulder-length hair so straight it might have been used as a ruler and coffee colored eyes, she always wore a smile, her hands were almost always full, one carrying a stack of photos threatening to fall out of their albums, the other holding a cellphone, without which she didn't even go put out the trash.

The eyes of many watched her scurry along the main set of cubicles, wave quickly to Christine and dash towards Lefévre´s office. She remained out of sight for less than a minute before returning, almost beaming at Christine. It could have been because her photos had been a success or because of the shopping they needed to do. Christine felt sure it was the later – Meg never cared very much what others thought of her work.

"Alright, Chris," she clapped her hands once, "I told Jammes what's up; she said she'd make sure the boss won't even know you're gone. Besides, Lef himself set this up, he must thus face the consequences!"

"Meg, it's not lunch break yet and besides, we can't just walk out of here." Christine noted wearily, as if explaining to a toddler that 1 + 1 equaled 2.

Meg made a tsk noise. "Chris, Chris, Chris. This isn't about buying a dress because you want to, but because you have to. Look, the opening night is your assignment, right?" Christine nodded. "Then it's settled! We set out for downtown and raid at least half of the boutiques I have in mind right now. I'm bound to think of more on the way."

Christine glanced sideways and stood up, handing some papers to the woman in the next cubicle. "Tricia, if you could please give these to Eliot when he gets back, I'd be very grateful. The statistics have been corrected, it should be ready now."

The woman nodded. "No problem, Christine." And sat back down. Now at the mercy of Meg, Christine collected her jacket and her purse, closed her browser windows and turned off her computer. The brunette grinned appreciatively and put an arm around Christine's shoulders as they began walking towards the exit.

Three hours later, Meg still wasn't giving up hope. They had tried many boutiques and just about every dress there was there was in them. Out of desperation, naturally – Meg had decided that Christine should focus on shades of blue, purple and light silver. She had counted with the fact that Christine wouldn't be too enthusiastic about most of the dresses, since they were fancier and at times slightly more revealing than what she usually wore. When Meg found a rather suggestive red gown, Christine proclaimed that she was hungry and needed a break.

They went to an Asian restaurant not too far away and quickly ordered some sushi. Meg kept trying to persuade Christine that the red dress might not be so bad. "I won't go there looking like Carmen in negligee, Meg." Christine said defensively, her tone making it clear that she didn't care to discuss it anymore.

Meg sighed and produced a print of the day's "The Sun" from her bad and read some article while Christine sipped her tea. A minute later, Meg frowned and shook her head with distaste. "They did it again. Trash, trash and more trash. One would think they'd have the decency to hire editors – or rather, someone who would deal with the censorship – and save trees from the fate of becoming this abomination."

"Who wrote it, whatever it is?"

"Another would-be breaking news article about a topic all the press is bound to be writing about attempting to outshine everyone else with pompous words and quasi-newfound facts. Add a terrible vocabulary to the mix and you have this." She tossed the paper back into her bag, since no bin was nearby. "In other words, another masterpiece of Joe Buquet."

Christine bit her lip and nodded sympathetically. Joe Buquet was famous for his traditional garbage when it came to news articles. He would have made a great career had he applied for a job in the _National Enquirer_ in the USA. "I know. But why do you read the thing if you really don't like it? I don't read any of these papers, all's on the web."

"I do it mostly for fun, but things like the Buquet Babble can really take away my appetite." Taking a sip of her own tea, Meg´s frown turned into a smile. "Returning to the matter at hand, we have more pressing things to deal with. We will find the right dress for you if it's the last thing I do. It just needs proper planning!"

Christine shook her head, but said nothing. Meg remained in deep thought for a moment. "We went through half of town and found nothing good. I'm beginning to think you might need a custom-made… dress…" she suddenly gained a distant expression and then snapped her fingers. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

Regaining her usual smile, Meg proceeded to explain. "You know that ballet class I go to? It's really great and all, mostly because I get to threaten my mum that I might become a ballerina, you know how she gets about that." Mrs. Giry had been a prima ballerina until a car accident forced her to abandon her career. She then had a hard time for a while before finding another part-time job whilst studying economics, not wanting to be cheated when it came to finances ever again. "Anyway, I met this chick there, really nice gal, her name's Sorelli Canova, she's part-Italian, her grandma, I think, was from Naples. She's a fashion designer; she'll make you a dress cheap!"

"Meg, we have less than a week." Christine pointed out, "In case you have forgotten, the premiere is five days. Doesn't making a dress take at least two weeks?"

Waving a hand, Meg dismissed her concerns. "Sorelli´s great, she'll manage it. Besides, we can at least ask, alright? She lives in West London, I've got her address, we can go there today, I'm sure she won't object." And before Christine knew what was happening, Meg had her cell phone in her hand. "Sorelli? Hi, this is Meg. Where are you? That sounds cool. Yeah, I'm good. Listen, we have an emergency here, my friend Christine has to go to an opera opening night on Saturday and needs a dress, nothing too sequined but austere won't do. Think you can help me out with this?" there was a pause and Christine heard a slightly accented but pleasant voice chattered something and Meg said "mhm" a couple of times. The brunette brightened up considerably during the conversation and winked at Christine. "When d´you think we could come over, I've got her with me? We can? Great, wonderful. Honey, I owe you big-time for this. Okay. Gotcha. Bye."

Meg hung up and triumphantly stabbed a piece of sushi, bringing it to her mouth and chewing for a moment before saying: "See? Told ya she would be delighted. Wait a minute till I finish the fish and pay up and then we can go."

"Right now?" Christine asked, surprised.

"Of course! Sorelli said she's at a date near the Millennium Wheel, but that it's no problem if we come right away and then we can go to her place." Meg said with a victorious smirk. "Not sure if her date will appreciate it, but then again, she was probably looking for an excuse to ditch him, so what the hell?" She swallowed the sushi and quickly stopped a waiter to ask for their bill.

They paid and left the restaurant, heading for Christine´s car. Christine drove them to the Jubilee Gardens, since objecting seemed impossible and Meg already thought all problems were solved (in any case, it would probably be better than raiding more boutiques), and Meg called Sorelli once more just to determine where she was. After five minutes of waiting, when Christine had given up her attempts to dissuade Meg from doing this, the brunette emitted a squeal and waved to someone Christine didn't yet see. Christine turned around to see a tall woman wave back at Meg, obviously smiling.

When Sorelli came closer, Christine saw clearly that she had the distinct Italian charm still present in her features and brown eyes. She seemed perhaps two or three years older than Meg or Christine, but all that it added was a slightly more mature look to her eyes. She had the perfect figure for a ballerina, but didn't seem skinny and was dressed in a flower-decorated light dress that complimented that figure perfectly. Apparently, she really knew her stuff, Christine noted mentally.

"Honey, so nice to see you here!" Sorelli said pleasantly and hugged Meg briefly. "And you must be Christine, right?" she smiled as Christine nodded and they shook hands. "Don't worry, we'll manage something."

"Sorelli!" the woman turned around and smiled at the man who had called her name. Two men hurried towards her. Well, the first one did. The second seemed slightly bored and quickened his pace when he spotted that the other had found Sorelli. The first one was apparently the date in question. He seemed to be in his early thirties, the younger one was about as old as Sorelli, wearing expensive sunglasses. Both were dressed as if they had returned from a fashion show. "Where have you run off to?"

As the two finally caught up with them, Sorelli withdrew a bit. "I'm here, Phil, no worries. I told you I'd be meeting a friend and I got the call when I was at the ladies, so you must have missed me." She said once in her date's embrace and kissed him. Mid-kiss, the made an Mm! Mmm! sound and quickly withdrew, turning to the two women. "This is Meg Giry, from my ballet class and Christine… sorry, I didn't ask your last name yet, Christine?" she apologized.

As Christine opened her mouth to speak, the other man asked. "Christine? Christine Daaé?" With a surprised frown, Christine nodded. The man took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of dark blue eyes and a surprised smile. "I thought you looked familiar. How long has it been, ten years, fifteen?"

"You guys know each other, Raoul?" Sorelli asked, surprised. Before, Christine had had a rather puzzled look on her face, thought the guy did seem somehow familiar. The name triggered a memory and the memory triggered the rest of the name.

"Raoul? Raoul de Chagny?" He nodded. Christine let out a surprised sound and smiled. "Twelve years, I'd say. Wow, I never thought I'd see you again. What are you doing here?"

"Phil's dragged me out of the house because he needed to discuss plans for the next month and didn't have time besides now and it seemed to somehow crash with his date with Sorelli. Fortunately, Sorelli didn't seem to object too much and when she got the call, she went back to normal." Raoul explained.

"Um, guys?" Meg piped up. "We're still here?" They had been looking at each other rather too intensely, but once Meg overcame the shock, she was rather pleased with herself. Raoul and Christine laughed (the latter a bit nervously).

Sorelli jumped in to avoid the awkwardness. "Meg, this is Philip de Chagny, my grand catch."

"Pleased to meet you both." Philip said, shaking hands with the two women briefly.

"And his brother Raoul I've already introduced." She concluded. "Now, care to share where you guys met, Raoul? This is a piece of information I haven't yet extracted from your brother dear."

Philip shrugged. "I wasn't there, honey. Besides, I didn't realize Raoul´s history is so important to you. I might get jealous." He teased.

Sorelli silenced those doubts by throwing herself at him and kissing him. "What a nice change that would be." She repeated the teasing.

Raoul rolled his eyes, clearly not really interested in their making up, but then smiled when he looked at Christine, who looked away quickly. He kept looking at her as he proceeded to explain. "We met ages ago, back in Upsala. I was sixteen and a real hockey fan – I wanted to become a pro. And Christine was a local; I met her after a practice during a snowball fight of the local kids. The wind caught her scarf and a snowball had hit her in the face, so she couldn't react quickly enough." Christine looked down; slightly pink in the cheeks as there was a collective laugh. "I fetched it for her and ended up inviting her for a cup of hot cocoa. Best Christmas of my life, I'd say, but afterwards I had to go back to England and when I returned next year, Christine was gone. Apparently, they had moved during the summer. I never saw Christine since, unfortunately."

"How did you even recognize me?" Christine asked, slightly perplexed. "I had no idea who you were before you kind of hinted you know me. It's been ages ago!"

Raoul nodded towards her neck. "You kept the scarf." And really, Christine was indeed wearing the same old scarf, more out of habit now than anything else. "So I took the chance and it worked out. But I'm being rude, we should meet sometimes, we've loads of catching up to do. And you ladies apparently met for a different reason than this reunion."

"Actually, Christine is supposed to go to the Royal Opera House this weekend for a premiere. Maybe you'd like to go together?" Meg tried to keep her suggestion innocent, pointedly ignoring Christine's glare.

"That's a great idea." Phil noted, "At least Sorelli and I will have some privacy at long last." Raoul rolled his eyes.

"You mean you're coming too?" Christine asked, surprised.

Sorelli laughed. "I'm sorry honey, I forgot to tell you – the de Chagnys are patrons of the opera house, this premiere was arranged with their cooperation. We get free tickets!"

Meg pouted. "No fair. Now I'll be the only one stuck at home with popcorn and romantic DVDs. Anyway, Sorelli, could we go to your place for the dress thing? Not that I'm not enjoying this conversation, but time's precious."

"Right." Sorelli nodded curtly. She kissed Phil again. "Sorry, honey, I need to go. Christine needs a dress for Saturday and I'm off to save the day. Super Sorelli needs to do her job."

"Do your best, Sor, and then give me the bill." Raoul said solemnly.

Meg looked utterly pleased, Sorelli had a small grin on her face as she nodded, but Christine shook her head. "Oh! No, Raoul, I can't accept that, really…"

"You can and you will. Don't worry about it." Raoul said with a smile, but it was clear that he was completely serious. "Consider it my reunion gift. Don't worry, Christine, I can afford buying you a dress. In return, I ask only that you bear with my company for a while so that I might interrogate you about your life and perhaps invite you for a coffee sometimes. Deal?"

"Deal!" Meg and Sorelli said at the same time, then proceeded to look at each other and laugh. Christine shook her head, but more due to their behavior than because of the idea of an exchange. She then nodded and thanked Raoul very much. "My pleasure, Christine. It's great to see you again."

"Call me when you're done, Sorelli." Phil said, earning a blown kiss from Sorelli. The three women watched the brothers head off and move towards a black Mercedes. Raoul waved at Christine before entering the car and Christine found herself weakly waving back. After the engine roared to life, Sorelli and Meg waited approximately for thirty seconds before squealing in unison.

"Christine Daaé, you've officially gotten yourself a guy!" Meg cried, patting Christine on the back too wildly "I had no idea you two knew each other."

"Tell me about it as we head to my place." Sorelli commanded and the three proceeded to walk towards Christine's car. "Seriously, Christine, Meg´s right – Raoul´s a sweetie, every woman that just passes him is totally head over heels for him, plus he's actually got blue blood!" Meg almost squealed again.

"We met years ago in Sweden, as he said. I had no idea he'd still remember." Christine confessed. "He was a really great guy back then and seems to be equally wonderful now. I told him about Sweden and he told me about England. We talked just about everything – when it came out that he was actually an aristocrat, I didn't really care. He's a Viscount, but you know how titles in the modern world have less value than in the past. Well, I didn't care much about that. I was fourteen, he was sixteen. I guess you can call it puppy love."

"He certainly seems keen to continue the relationship right where it left off." Meg slyly commented from the backseat. "He didn't even set a price limit for the dress!"

"That means we really have to hurry, because I have some things in mind that would be good." Sorelli said, "Pale colors, pastel, nothing too extravagant. Forget-me-not blue would be great, I think, or viridian green. Silk and satin, mostly loose, soft decorations. Guys like Raoul don't go for cleavage exposure, especially if they're already interested because of something else. As little accessories as possible. And I'd suggest gold, it'll be great with your hair – silver will make you look paler, which really isn't needed in your case. So green it is."

"You guys really aren't going to wait one moment for my opinion, are you?" Christine said, frowning as she stopped at a crossroad and a red light.

"Nope." Meg said cheerfully. "I'll get the make-up ready. You've possibly found yourself THE guy, Chris – he seemed really nice and genuinely interested. Besides, he's hot and paying for your dress, so you might as well look your best."

"That's the street, to the left." Sorelli navigated and Christine took a left turn. She stopped at the house Sorelli told her to and the trio left the car, locking it safely.

Sorelli´s apartment was really bohemian and quite filled with things. Any kind of organization of her belongings seemed slightly foreign to her, apparently. However, Sorelli wasn't particularly bothered. Sketches and paints and brushes were everywhere. Only the fabric samples seemed to be slightly organized.

"Welcome chez Sorelli." She said, motioning to them to sit down. She went to search for something, but called to them: "Make yourselves at home, m´dears!"

"What did I tell you?" Meg whispered to Christine. "Let your fairy godmother Megan deal with everything and everything will be alright."

Christine was about to object when Sorelli returned with three mugs and a large bottle of Coca Cola. "We'll be needing energy and sugar high is a good thing in some cases. Now, let me get started." She said, rubbing her palms together for a moment and taking in Christine's appearance from top to bottom. "Our task is not only making the perfect dress, but also making Raoul´s eyes fall out, and not just because of the bill. And those snobby wenches that go to the opera to show-off their newest dresses will get a heart-attack as well. That's the grand master plan. Meg, you're my assistant, you'll need to bring me things, okay? Christine, you just remain still for a while I do the main sketch. Hopefully, by the end of the afternoon, we'll have a general idea of what we want."


	3. Chapter 3

To answer the questions posed by Christine Elestor: I wanted to add a bit of tension there. Yes, a date it is. No, she isn't going to hate it. The opera is not real, but the details are still a secret. And about Erik – who says he's coming in at all? (Note: I'm being sarcastic. Wait a few chapters, please, then he'll come in.)

X X X

**Chapter 3**

X X X X

After tree hours, Christine was getting a little stiff. She had been standing for almost the entire time, waiting as Sorelli sketched a few things, began measuring her, trying how well some fabrics went with her and writing stuff down. Meg wasn't being very helpful, but at least she was bringing things to Sorelli. Sorelli, however, seemed to be enjoying the challenge quite a lot and while she frowned at times, she never showed signs of boredom or weariness. With Meg, those things were out of the question. Christine could only envy them.

At the end of their little session, however, Sorelli proclaimed that the dress would be ready on time if it would be the last thing she would do and the last thing Raoul´s wallet would pay. The mess in her apartment was a bit worse by the time Meg and Christine left, but Sorelli got very enthusiastic. She quickly ran through a brief schedule with Christine and they exchanged phone numbers, because, as Sorelli put it, for the next week, Christine would be coming for sleepovers.

"I'll run through the results of today's inspection and call some people. Tomorrow, we'll be going over fabrics. Any jewelry you have that would go well with light green – find it and show me." Sorelli had commanded before escorting them to the door. She waved as the two of them returned to Christine's car – it was at least five pm, but it was still quite light.

Meg, however, seemed to be taking this far more seriously than Christine and asked her to take her back downtown instead of to her apartment, saying that she still wanted to check out a few things that she thought might be good with the dress and, if they wouldn't be, they would end up in her accessory storage closet.

That meant Christine drove home alone – it was too late to go visit Mrs. Valerius now, the old lady was probably watching one of her favorite evening cooking programs by now, but she decided to call once she would get home. She lived in Richmond – quite a drive from Sorelli´s place, but she didn't really mind. Most of Richmond was parks and open spaces, something very rare in a packed city like London. She knew she was very lucky to have such an apartment, not least of all because she wasn't born in London.

She couldn't afford a house yet, but she was comfortable with her apartment. It contained much of her stuff, but she spent so much time around Mrs. Valerius that she would sometimes search for something and discover it a week later at her guardian's home. She still viewed her as her guardian, even though she was an adult now.

The apartment was quite modern when it came to design, but Christine found that she always preferred classic styles to what she liked to view as avant-garde. Most of her apartment was designed in the style that allowed it to be seen as both slightly more modern than most and yet classic enough for her to feel comfortable. Nothing overly decorated yet nothing too austere. She had saved up enough money to make the apartment look very fashionable and yet it didn't cost her that much. Almost an entire wall that separated the living room from her bedroom was covered with a large replica of the _Primavera_, giving the room a warmer atmosphere, in Christine's opinion. There were several other renaissance paintings hanging around, from Fra Angelico to Botticelli to Titian. Replicas, naturally, but she was very much alright with that. Her father had always told her that beauty lied in simplicity and she thought that these pictures pretty much suited that creed. She had several pot plants standing around the television set and in the kitchen. Most of the furniture was wooden, but she still preferred modern lamps. That way, the style didn't contrast that much with her computer and other electronics and appliances.

Christine turned on the light and lowered her purse on a nearby chair. Everything she needed she had – pancakes in the fridge, she could connect with the network of the _Deacon _to check what everyone had been up to during the day. She was in luck that she was a pretty reliable worker and she didn't need to remain in the offices all the time if there was, like now, an emergency.

She was about to go get the pancakes out when she remembered that by now Jamie Oliver might have finished his show and that she ought to call Mrs. Valerius. Fishing in her purse for her cell, she quickly dialed the desired number and waited for a few moments before hearing a small click and an elderly pleasant voice said: "Hello?"

"Evening, Mrs. V., it's Christine." Christine said, her tone more cheerful than she truly felt.

"Christine, how nice to hear from you. Did you have a pleasant day?"

Christine went to the fridge and took out the pancakes, heading for the microwave, but smiled. Hearing Mrs. Valerius could always cheer her up, even if she asked the most trivial of questions – it never sounded forced. "Quite. My boss, Mr. Lefévre, gave me a new assignment – apparently, he wants to promote me, and this is supposed to be somewhat of an exam. Hopefully, I'll manage it and get the promotion."

"That sounds delightful, my dear. I'm happy for you. What kind of work did he give you?"

"I'm supposed to go to an opera this weekend and write a review of sorts. I said it was out of my league, but he wants me to ´see all the angles of the job´, or something like that."

Mrs. Valerius seemed really delighted. "How wonderful, it might be your big chance. And you haven't been to the theater for so long – it might convince you to resume your singing, Christine! I do remember you had so much talent, your father always said that as well. It might be a pleasurable experience."

"Perhaps." Christine said, slightly skeptic, as she went to find some jam. "In any case, it's given Meg a chance to be happy, so it might not be all that bad. But it's a new production, so I don't know if I'll like it. Classics are classics, after all, so we'll see."

"Indeed, indeed. Well, I hope you enjoy that, dear, I certainly approve of cultural entertainment, unlike those… those rock concerts modern kids go to. You're a joy, Christine, you always have been. Have you found yourself an escort? Some nice young man." Mrs. Valerius said encouragingly.

"Perhaps." Christine said with a smile. "I experienced a reunion today and the young man in question was quite happy to see me again. He happens to be going as well, so… you never know."

"Well, it seems to be getting better and better. Do enjoy yourself, Christine. I'm sorry to say this, but I still have to put the cat out, so I might have to bid you goodnight and get the little pest out before it scratches my door. Stop by on Sunday, I'll make some cookies and you can introduce the young man to me, see if I approve."

Though she knew Mrs. Valerius couldn't see her, she nodded. "Alright, then. I love you, goodnight."

"I love you too, dearie." And she hung up.

Christine smiled to herself as she took the pancakes out of the microwave and went to fetch a fork and a knife. Things might actually be pleasant, she thought. She had had some reservations before, but everything was getting better and better. She brought her meal to the computer and ate while browsing the web for general news and attempted, without any real hope for results, to find something more about the mysterious new opera. Naturally, she found nothing. But right now, she couldn't care less.

X X X

Every day until Friday, Christine went to Sorelli´s and stayed for several hours, attempting to help somewhat with the dress. Occasionally, Meg came with her or dropped by at irregular intervals, bringing with her stuff she had found in her closet or elsewhere. Sorelli had apparently decided that she needed some help to do this properly, or Raoul had convinced her that he really wanted this done perfectly. Whatever the case, two seamstresses, Evelyn and Sarah, were now being bossed around by an impatient Sorelli. Christine now had a good idea what it felt like to be a mannequin.

However, the tiring hours were fruitful. When Christine was leaving on Friday afternoon, Sorelli seemed a bit relieved and said that the dress _would_ be ready no matter what – it just needed some more tweaking. Meanwhile, Jammes had pressed her for details when she had told her that she wouldn't be going alone, Lefévre let her rest for a while, letting her make this her top priority and Meg still wanted to go see Ice Age 2.

She had told the boss that she could find no details about the project, but he dismissed her concerns with the information that the management wanted this to be a very secret project, a premiere no one could get details about before the actual performance.

Ice Age 2 was a good movie, Meg was really cheered up by the jokes, but Christine kept wondering how Sorelli intended to create the perfect dress from those few pieces of random fabrics sewed together in a day. Even she, however, had to laugh when Scrat made his occasional appearance. The acorn jokes were simply far too funny to ignore.

Christine didn't manage to go visit Mrs. Valerius for the rest of the week, but called every day, as usual, and promised repeatedly that she would come for the entire Sunday. On Saturday morning, her cell had woken her with another round of Mozart's _Exsultate, Jubilate_. She didn't recognize the phone number, so she spoke the formal: "Christine Daaé speaking."

"Morning, Little Lotte." She sat up in bed, quite surprised to hear Raoul´s voice. "We were in a hurry back in the park, but I managed to catch Sorelli for a while and demand your phone number or her life." He said jokingly.

Laughing a bit, though she wasn't entirely certain why, Christine asked: "Are you so desperate to call me because you want to tell me that after Sorelli gave you the bill, you decided this wasn't such a good idea after all and want to ditch me?"

"Heavens, no! I'm just making sure you are as enthusiastic as I am and looking forward to the first day of our reunited lives."

"Sorelli said she'd drop by for lunch and bring the dress with her. Meg will come too – they both seem keen to make me ready for tonight. Not being enthusiastic would mean risking their combined wrath. Is it just me, or are ballerinas all like that?"

"Meg – I'm not sure, but Sorelli has it in her blood." Raoul noted. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your beauty sleep, dreaming of dolls, goblins and shoes and whatever else Little Lotte might dream of. I'll pick you up around six, okay? Sorelli was gracious enough to give me your address, so don't worry about that."

"Alright. I´m looking forward to it." Christine noted. She turned off her cell and glanced at the alarm clock. Oh, well, she decided, she was allowed to sleep in one day. She didn't manage to fall asleep, though, so she spent the next four and a half reading Milton´s _Paradise Lost._ She got out of bed quite late, around midday, but wasn't particularly bothered. After all, she couldn't get to the opera house before the performance, as she had deduced that no one would probably be willing to answer any questions before the premiere.

She was about to get a very late breakfast or an early lunch when the doorbell rang. Christine went to the door and checked who it was before opening. There stood Sorelli, holding the apparently finished dress neatly wrapped in a cloth. She herself was dressed in khaki pants and a yellow blouse. When she took in Christine's lime green nightclothes and navy blue bathrobe, she frowned slightly, but regained her smile fast.

"Hi honey, glad to see you're taking the beauty sleep seriously. We wouldn't want you to look shriveled up on your grand night, would we now?"

"Sorelli, is it necessary to prepare six hours before the quasi-date, seven before the opera even starts?" Christine asked, taking her turn to frown.

Sorelli dismissed that with a wave of her hand. "There's never too much time. Besides, once Meg gets here, everything will take twice as long." She stepped in, putting down her bag near a semi-tall palm tree in a pot in the corner. "Now, you better thank me for this and look good in it, girly, because it was no easy job. I did it in record time and I'm rather pleased with it." She carefully unwrapped the dress for Christine to see and the blonde's eyes almost fell out. Sorelli grinned. "Ah yes, this is the desired effect! Hopefully, Raoul will think so too."

The dress was pale viridian, making it seem like grass covered with sunlit snow. It wasn't that low-cut, just enough to make room for a nice necklace. The bodice was a corset decorated with just a bit of embroidery. A pale golden thread had been used to make it seem a little livelier. The skirt was clearly pure silk and chiffon, with the slightest satin lining. The silk was the underskirt and all of the "decorations" were sewn on it. The chiffon was almost see-through, so it was easy to discern the patterns beneath it – leaves and small golden flowers.

Sorelli waved a hand in front of Christine's eyes, giggling slightly. "Attendete, Christine. Wait. Meg promised she would raid her wardrobe for a pair of beige-colored high heels. Hopefully, she'll find them, because a wrong shade of green could ruin this. Do you have any jewelry that would go well with this? Gold and green would be appreciated."

Christine blinked, then nodded and went to her room to fetch the jewelry box. Sorelli had seated herself in on the sofa quite comfortably before she returned, still holding the dress. Christine rarely wore jewelry, partially because she didn't think it mattered, partially because she rarely had enough money to buy the things she really liked. She handed the box to Sorelli, who thanked her curtly and quickly went through what she had. There was a nice aquamarine ethno-styled jewelry set there, but that was out of the question. Loads of rings – Sorelli managed to find a golden ring with a small sapphire, which Mrs. Valerius had bought Christine when she graduated – a fashionable crucifix, loads of things that weren't fit for the occasion and other things Christine had gotten from friends.

Finally, Sorelli fished out a nice golden chain with a decorated golden treble clef-shaped pedant and nodded enthusiastically. She began searching for earrings, but didn't find anything suitable. Now frowning, she took out the last thing in the box – another small box – and finally let out a sigh of relief when she found a pair of hanging gold earrings. Next to her, Christine paled for a second. Sorelli noticed it.

"Something wrong, Christine?"

Christine shook her head. "I just… I didn't know I still had those. They, they were my mum's."

"She's…?" Sorelli got the idea. "I'm sorry, if you don't want to wear them…"

"No, no, no, it's alright." Christine said quickly. "I don't even remember her. I just… I quite forgot about those. Can you believe it? I would never dream of forgetting Dad, but these totally slipped my mind. Well… anyway, do we have everything?"

Sorelli nodded. "Yep, that's all. Now, get yourself into the shower, madama, and be ready to turn from a caterpillar to a lovely butterfly!"

"Are you implying that I'm a caterpillar?" Christine asked, with a slight frown. Then she remembered she was still in her pjs and her hair, at other times an angel's mane of gold, now probably resembled a yellow mushroom cloud. With a small growl when she noticed Sorelli´s would-be innocent expression, she slouched towards the bathroom.

By the time she surfaced, Sorelli had made herself quite at home and was watching some sitcom on TV whilst talking to someone – obviously Meg – on the phone. She announced that Meg apparently saw something she liked in a boutique and decided that she was going to be late. All the better, Sorelli said, and quickly went to help Christine with the lengthy process of drying her hair. By the time they had won the battle against her renegade curls, Meg had arrived, bags in her hands – one of them containing the shoes Sorelli had mentioned - and wearing a new short orange dress. Sorelli clicked her tongue impatiently, clearly trying hard not to tell Meg that orange was not her color.

Meg´s arrival slowed the getting ready process of getting ready down somewhat, but eventually, their combined efforts created a presentable hairstyle for Christine, a French braid that went from the left side of her head to the right. The dress was one of the lasts steps and Sorelli repeatedly exclaimed that they should be careful with it. Christine felt a bit tied up once she got the corset on, but Sorelli wasted no time saying that she had outdone herself. Once Christine looked into the mirror, she actually had to agree.

Sorelli had brought her own dress as well. Christine thought it unfair that she was ready far more quickly – her soft magenta gown took far less time to put on and Sorelli decided to keep her hair loose. She only wore an elaborate choker necklace, no other accessories. It was Meg´s cue to begin wailing that she would be left all alone with only DVD movies while the two of them were going out with hot rich guys. In the end, Christine took pity on her and allowed her to stay at her place and watch her _Lord of the Rings_ extended edition DVDs while waiting.

The clock barely managed to hit six p.m. before the doorbell rang yet again and Meg rushed to open. Raoul had arrived, looking perfectly dashing in a black suit, a bonnet of lilies in his hands. "Evening, Sorelli, Christine. I hope you ladies are ready, Phil's got the car waiting downstairs." He said, his eyes lingering on Christine. Sorelli resisted the urge to look too pleased with herself. Barely. "You look divine."

"Cool down, lover-boy, wait until she gets softened up by the opera." Sorelli said, but smiled at him. "We're ready." She went over to Meg and hugged her goodbye.

"I'll call you when the opera is over, okay, Megster?" Christine said, smiling. She went to hug Meg as well, but Sorelli shrieked. All looked to her to see what was wrong, but she was already stepping between Christine and Meg.

"No hugging while she has the dress on!" she commanded.

There was a collective laugh and Meg waved at them one last time before closing the door behind them as they left.


	4. Chapter 4

I normally wouldn't write this, but… Katie, you made my day by reviewing. I wasn't expecting it, but I greatly appreciate it. Hopefully, I'll manage to live up to your expectations, so, in short, thank you for liking the story. Yours was a great inspiration and still is a high standard to reach. I really hope you write more, I enjoyed it tremendously. So, thank you.

As for the opera, it's my own creation – partially. It's a classic Japanese fairytale, but only the name of Yohei is mentioned in it. The synopsis is in this chapter. The title is in French, as is the "opera".

X X X

**Chapter 4 **

X X X X

_Carriage – check. Dress – check. Fairy godmother – check. Ball – check. _

Christine was really beginning to feel like a modern Cinderella. A Cinderella with an audio recorder and camera in her purse. She hadn't forgotten the reason she was going to the opera house. She kept checking her things all the way to Covert Garden, until Sorelli gave her a pointed look that plainly told her to stop and focus on her date. Not that any of them was really focusing on one another, with the exception of Raoul, who seemed to be trying to think of a way to start a conversation, but was too busy staring at Christine. Philip was talking to someone quickly on the phone and Sorelli was checking her lipstick in a small mirror she had pulled out of nowhere.

Finally sealing her purse, Christine smiled at Raoul, who was still looking at her as if she had fallen out of the sky. He had put on a good show of attempting to be casual in her apartment… but it was useless now that they were sitting next to each other. Since he didn't seem to find words, Christine decided to play it cool and start a conversation with everyone when Philip put away his cell once more.

"Do you know anything about this opera we're going to? I couldn't find anything on the web about it, not even the name of the composer. It was like you were making something top secret." she said, trying to appear unconcerned.

Philip chuckled. "No, you wouldn't. You see these days, people are used to listening to the old classical operas – Verdi, Mozart, Rossini, Wagner. Those are the ones everyone knows and expects to hear. Now, when our family decided to invest in the arts, we did a bit of market research, you could say. Opera is the fastest growing entertainment in the world – movies usually last about a month and operas have lasted centuries. But the last famous one was written in the 1920s, if I remember correctly."

Christine nodded. "Turandot, by Puccini. His last."

"I see why you got sent here, Christine." Sorelli noted, "From what Meg said about your boss, it's either 200 percent or nothing with him. French." she shrugged elegantly.

There was a collective laugh and Philip continued. "Well and we managed to hit the jackpot. Some new composer decided to enter the scene and compose new operas. A risky business, but the critics are all head over heels with the music. Each performance of his very first work was a full house. Opera Garnier – that's where he started," he said to answer Christine's unasked question, "is at his feet, begging him for more. We went to see the thing with Raoul and the fact that he didn't fall asleep mid-opera proved to me that this was worth it."

Raoul frowned as Sorelli giggled. Christine only smiled vaguely. "Phil, don't be like that. Just because opera is not exactly my favorite thing to see doesn't mean…"

"I went to see _Aida_ with him in Milan once. The entire audience was crying, so they didn't hear his snoring – fortunately." Philip said, ignoring his brother.

"I simply prefer sports." Raoul said defensively. "Wait till we play ice hockey again, bro, then you'll regret these words deeply."

"Until then, however…" Philip smirked. "The rest, you'll have to see, I'm afraid – I can't give you any details about this, the production is entirely new, not even I have seen it. Actually, anyone who had nothing to do with the show didn't even get the chance to be present at the rehearsal. Our dear composer's demands. Honestly, if the guy wasn't so brilliant, I don't think anyone could stand his bossiness and arrogance for longer than five minutes."

"Can you tell me his name, at least?" Christine asked hopefully. A name would be far more than enough.

"Well, to us, he is commonly known as the Opera Ghost, or the Phantom of the Opera." Christine raised an eyebrow. "A nickname made by the ballet girls, you can guess. He never shows up at any rehearsal, we've actually never even met him personally, just received notes, emails or phone calls. We've mostly dealt with his… manager, you could say." Raoul laughed slightly. "Artists – they always have their little demands, you know. Maybe he doesn't think we're worthy of his holy presence."

"Quiet, Raoul." Philip said seriously, "His methods may seem curious to you, but if the man isn't a total workaholic, I can understand him. He's already writing a new opera. I'd be surprised if he has time to eat or sleep. Besides, he seems to be a very private man."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, surprised.

"The compositions are anonymous, in a sense." Philip said, sighing, "He doesn't seem to want his name known… yet. And, you can imagine, it's a very good marketing move. People all around the world will be talking about him within a few weeks, trying to guess who he is. I've asked him several times to tell me his full name, so that we may invite him to social events, introduce him to people… he refused. Politely, but coolly, he refused each time. He said something about waiting for a triumph… well, he can be cryptic, as I'm sure you've noticed. Anyway, we put up with these little whims purely because having him composing for us means bringing attention to the Royal Opera House. It's a bargain."

"How does he know how to correct the rehearsals then? If something is wrong?" Christine asked, genuinely interested.

"Audio and video footage… but it's more than that. It's like having a real ghost that can see everything, you know. The ballet girls get pretty creeped out at times." Raoul confessed.

"Yeah, you'd know about ballet girls, huh, Raoul?" Sorelli said snidely. Raoul went slightly red and looked down as Sorelli spared him a triumphant glance. "What was the name of the last one – Rebecca, right?"

"For your information, Sor, she was a chorus girl and that particular relationship has ended at least a month ago." He said quietly. "She was simply more interested in working her way to the place of the prima donna…"

Sorelli made a tsk noise. "Too bad, dearie. That's the bad thing about relationships between two people who work together. You never know when one might be using the other. Still, you're better off without her. Hopefully you don't buy all your girlfriends dresses for the opera, or you'll be broke soon."

It was Christine's turn to blush slightly, but she camouflaged it by looking out the window. They had arrived at Covert Garden and she almost gasped when she saw the opera house. Of course, she had seen it before, but never so late at night and never so beautifully decorated. Cars were zooming past it, occasionally stopping in front of the building. The Greek pillars were lighted spectacularly, giving off the effect of an ancient temple ready for a ritual. However, the modern lights and the crowds were clearly 21st century-ish. Their limo – the source of Sorelli´s enthusiasm – stopped and the two de Chagnys carefully helped the two women get out. Their movement was slightly limited by their dresses and Sorelli´s near-hysterics when Christine's dress touched the surface of the car, which was, for the record, spotlessly clean.

Christine could only think of the sights around her, ignoring all as they entered the Royal Opera House, ignoring even the fact that she had accepted Raoul´s offered arm. They were almost precisely on time, so they didn't want to waste any more minutes meeting anyone – after all, this premiere was for the press and the sponsors primarily. The elite of London, the crème de la crème, as Lefévre had correctly informed her.

Their box, box 42, was on the grand tier, to the left when they ascended the stairs. They were almost facing the Queen's reserved box. Philip was clearly satisfied with himself when they entered the box and sat down. Sorelli had wanted to purchase a bulletin about the opera, but the woman selling them recognized the two patrons and quickly gave it to her for free. Sorelli sat down, reading it, while Christine was too busy looking around. The lights around them, the beautiful furnishings of each box and the rich wine red curtain was enough to get her into an artistic ecstasy. Suddenly, she wondered why she had never visited this wonderful place during the years she spent in London. Now, faced with this wonder, she had almost forgotten that it had been because of her father.

Sorelli finished reading what interested her in the bulletin and handed it to Christine, tapping her shoulder with it. Christine snapped out of her momentary trance. "Here, you need this more than I do."

Christine suddenly realized that she was supposed to work. She smiled and thanked Sorelli, quickly going through the bulletin. Now she was very glad she had come, even if she might not like the opera they were about to see. She noticed that there was a plot outline in the bulletin and felt a wave of anger leave her. Information at long last!

_Finally._ She thought, and, the journalist in her taking over, she read the article, despite the fact that she wanted to see what the opera was going to be about. Apparently, it wasn't supposed to have been printed, but someone wanted to save money and not print two types of bulletins for the same performance.

**_La Grue_****_ – drama lirico in three acts, based on the classic Japanese fairytale _**

_Setting: Japan, sixteenth century _

_Synopsis _

**_Act 1:_**_ The young Japanese settler Yohei is out in the fields, trying to think of an idea to better his financial status and collect some food. He finds a badly injured crane, shot down by an arrow, lying on a rock. Yohei heals the crane by taking out the arrow and saves the bird's life. He then returns to his home, empty-handed. After nightfall, there is a knock on his door. A beautiful young woman, who introduces herself as Miyoko, greets him and offers to become his wife. Overjoyed and enamored, Yohei welcomes her to his life. _

**_Act 2:_**_ The newlyweds are coexisting peacefully, but in poverty. Seeing Yohei´s despair, Miyoko offers to weave fabrics for him to sell, but makes Yohei promise that he will never come see her when she is weaving. She produces a bundle of amazing silk, but emerges from the weaving room very tired and pale. Yohei sells the silk for much money. When it runs out, Miyoko sees Yohei´s sadness again and agrees to make some more silk. She is even more tired and paler when she leaves the room finally. Yohei, happy that they will get more money to better their way of life, sells the silk for twice as much as the first one. His neighbor, Haruki, compliments the silk, saying even his wife, who has been weaving for many years, has never produced anything so fine. He offers Yohei the start of a business. Yohei is enthusiastic, but Miyoko grows sadder each day. _

**_Act 3:_**_ Miyoko has wearily agreed to weave more silk, for the very last time. Now, however, Haruki´s words repeat themselves in Yohei´s mind. His wife had never needed new threads or anything else. She had always seemed so tired and pale. Breaking his promise not to enter her room while she is weaving, he opens the door slightly to see what is happening inside. He sees a slightly blood-covered crane weaving the silk, tearing out its own feathers for threads. Yohei faints from the terrible sight. When he awakes, he finds a fresh bundle of red-stained white silk in his hands. The voice of Miyoko tells him that she was the crane he had saved in the fields and had come to him in the form of a human to repay him. Now that he had seen her, however, she must forever leave the world of men. Half-crazed, calling for his wife, Yohei runs into the plains where he had found the crane. But the crane is already flying away, disappearing behind the clouds. _

The lights went out almost precisely when Christine finished reading the last line. She hastily put the bulletin away and moved her eyes to the stage just as the conductor appeared and the orchestra started a hauntingly lyrical overture that put everything she had ever heard to shame. She sat, transfixed, hypnotized from the beginning to the very end. If she were to describe it, it would have been a swan's song, a portrait of a swan – or, in this case, a crane – through music. It was graceful, wounded but contained a slight Japanese theme as well. Nevertheless, if was like nothing she had ever heard and she listened to almost only classical music.

"La beauté de la soie", the Weaving Aria of Miyoko, as she nicknamed it in her mind, brought her to tears and she had to force herself not to start sobbing in the middle of the audience. She spoke French fluently, so she understood what was being said, but the lyrics had a great effect on her, even the English translation.

_Beauty of silk is born through pain _

_For him I shall endure it _

_For him I cross the borders of sacrifice _

_Surrender willingly to fulfill his heart's desire _

The curtain went up, revealing a distinctly rural setting. Not once did Christine remember that she wasn't here to simply sit back and enjoy the performance. From the first note to the last, she was tied to the storyline, unable to tear her eyes and ears away from it. Not even the breaks managed to get her attention away from the composition. Sorelli was almost in tears by the end of the opera, along with who knows how many other people in the audience. Philip was applauding loudly by the end of it, one of the first people to stand up. Even Raoul seemed to be applauding slightly louder than was needed. It was the applause that brought Christine back to reality. The story was over.

She found herself unable to even applaud. This­… this wasn't genius. Genius was human. The music she had heard was holy, with all that came with it. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. If only her father would have heard this. He would have been so happy, so pleased. Music from heaven… the music of angels. She smiled tearfully. She remembered his promises of an angel. An Angel of Music.

Tonight, she had witnessed the work of an angel.

She looked around and saw that every person in the theater was offering a standing ovation. The soprano and the tenor who had sung the main parts were being showered with flowers. Screams of "Bravo!" were heard from all sides of the audience. The managers, two middle-aged men, had come to congratulate the soloists and the conductor. More flowers were being brought. People expected, hoped, that the composer himself would step into the limelight and take the offered congratulations. However, no one came.

Everyone's eyes were on the stage, still waiting, hoping, anticipating. Christine was the only one looking around, trying to memorize the positive reactions, memorize every detail of the opera house. However, she noticed one box on the grand tier that was quiet. It struck her as very strange – everyone was applauding, cheering, but this box, number 65 on the seating plan, appeared lifeless. The lights in it were turned off. She could make out the outline of a person standing up, preparing to leave in the midst of the celebrations. Whoever it was, they seemed to have a very good sixth sense, because they turned and looked for the person that was looking at them. Other than the fact that it was a male figure that seemed to be very tall, Christine could make out almost nothing. She knew he was looking at her, though she didn't see his eyes.

"Christine, come, the party will be in full swing by the time we arrive!" Raoul said to her. During the moment she had wasted to glance at her escort, the figure in the dark box had vanished. Christine couldn't place the feeling of a slight scare.

Mingled with the fear, however, was great curiosity. Who was that man? She didn't want to ask the de Chagnys directly, however, because she didn't want to rouse any suspicions and draw attention to the fact she had seen anyone at all. She had the distinct feeling that she had seen something she shouldn't have seen.

"I noticed an empty box after we returned for act 3." She noted, trying to be casual, as they descended to the hall where the party would be held.

Raoul tried to remember something, then nodded. " Box 65? Yeah, I'd say it would be empty, though I didn't really check. Erik had that box reserved, but he didn't show up, I guess. It would ruin his air of mystery."

"Erik?" Christine asked.

"Oh, I forgot – that's our composer. Whether it's his real name or his penname, I don't know, but it's spelled with a k, not a c, if you'll want to print it, so be careful. He's the greatest perfectionist the world has ever seen." Raoul warned her, but smiled. "I suppose I'm having such a good time that I barely remembered that this isn't a real date."

Christine looked down, blushing slightly. "I… I'm not sure."

"Maybe we could have a real one later on?" he asked hopefully.

Christine didn't answer at first, but then nodded. Why not? She asked herself. He was great – and she had promised that they would see each other, after all, in exchange for the dress.

Raoul beamed at her. "Great, Christine! We'll sort out the details once you're done and we get out of here. Now do your job and do it quickly, so that you have loads of free time on your hands, Little Lotte. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Christine nodded absent mindedly, but found herself pondering the man she had seen. Had it been him? Had she been the only one to see him? Obviously, yes. Everyone else had been under the spell of Erik's divine music, too hypnotized by its wonders to pay attention to anything else.

Erik.

She found she rather liked the name.


	5. Chapter 5

Wow­… two of my favorite authoresses on this site have reviewed the story! Could I be happier? No idea, but probably not. Still, here is the chapter, I hope it's good. Writing for such an audience gives me a sense of responsibility… damnit :-)

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**Chapter 5**

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Nadir Khan considered himself a very patient man.

He was willing to go through most of the waiting other people would consider something that should be sanctioned by law, was a quite good conversationalist and knew when to be tactful, when to pursue a dream and when to back down. When it came to dealing with the managers of the Royal Opera House, he had a feeling that, if Hinduists were to be believed and everyone lives many lives, he had done something very, very evil in a past life.

There were times when he believed he should never have agreed to play this game in the first place. However, with Erik, things were always tricky. When one would attempt to push him into something, something could happen­ or he could simply choose to disappear entirely. Nadir certainly didn't wish for that to happen. It had taken so long to find him once. Finding him again, now that Erik would know he would be searching for him, should he choose to vanish, would be near impossible, scratching the "near" part.

The two managers were like persistent wasps, however, never giving up. Once the opera was over, they didn't waste a minute – at once, they were both upon him, asking the very same questions the management of the Palais Garnier in Paris had flooded him with after_La vendetta del cielo_ had been premiered.

Was Erik present? They had not heard of his arrival, but if he was there, they would very much like to know, so that they might properly introduce themselves and thank him and congratulate him. Did Nadir think Erik would like it? Was it better now after the corrections? Would he mind that some things might not be that perfect? Would they now have the honor of meeting Erik personally, after such a triumph?

The poor fools! Nadir thought. They had no idea that Erik neither needed nor cared for their stuttered praise or that, if they ever had the misfortune of meeting him, that they would be afraid of many things, but whether he liked their production would be on the lower part of that list. After all, he had so carefully covered Erik's criticism into phrases that made them seem polite suggestions only, not the commanding words of a dictator that was in his rightful domain. It was Nadir's primary job, in a way – public relations.

Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin had been slightly disappointed when Nadir had asked them for a moment of solitude in their offices, but were nervous as schoolboys when he explained to them that he and Erik had scheduled a phone call at 10:30 pm precisely, some time after the opera had ended. He had the slight urge to lock the door, but presumed that the managers would be too nervous to attempt to listen at a keyhole. Nevertheless, he retreated to the farthest end of the room, to the window, observing the busy streets below.

His cell flickered to life just as the exactly adjusted time on it struck 10:30 pm. Nadir smiled slightly bitterly. Erik was nothing if not precise. And Nadir knew better than keep him waiting. He pressed the correct button and brought the telephone to his ear.

He didn't even wait for a sound to come from the phone. "Good evening, Erik. Precise as always." He said. Of course he couldn't see the phone number of the caller – Erik was much too effective when it came to his desire to remain a recluse to allow him the chance of even giving Nadir the smallest clue of his whereabouts.

That was the strange part of their relationship, whatever one might call it – it was something between respect and friendship and tolerance of one another – their entire "reunion" after what had happened in the Middle East had been non-physical. Nadir hadn't seen as much as Erik's shadow, yet at times, he was convinced that he was close, watching. Thus far, he kept his demands to see Erik unspoken.

"Precision is one of the keys to survival… and perfection." The voice that sounded from the telephone, though made slightly mechanical by the machine, was, in a word, unworldly. Nadir wondered how come it still had the same effect on him even after being, in a manner of speaking, used to it.

Christians would think of the voice as that of an archangel, at times with a sword of flames, heading to battle, at others merciful, gentle to the faithful. To Moslems, the voice would be the voice that, in heaven, sings the words of the Koran to those who have been true to Islam and, in hell, condemns those who betrayed the faith. To the Hindu, it would be Vishnu the gentle Creator and yet Shiva the Destroyer. A caressing breeze that all welcomed at times of need, gentle and soothing, at other times, the eye of the storm, a hurricane that sweeps off rooftops with ease leaving all life in terror. A ray of heaven's light once, the blazing fires of hell at others.

It was the voice one would imagine God to have.

"If I were to ask where you are at the current moment, would I receive an answer?" Nadir asked cautiously, trying not to set off the legendary temper he still remembered.

"Now, now, that would be telling." The angel teased. "Besides, I find this little game of hide and seek amazingly amusing at the moment. In due time, I might tell you… or not. But let us concern ourselves with the manners at hand. Did you enjoy the opera?"

Nadir wasn't certain how to reply, not being very artistic. "I suppose that your music was what captivated people most about it. It certainly was the only reason why I came – besides the fact that you pay me, of course."

"Indeed. I will rely on your memory for the time being, so here are my little complaints: if they ever perform such an atrocity again, I will end our contract. I have told them time and time again that they are to find a new pair of leads! A soprano lirico and tenore leggero, not a shrill spinto that sounds like a police siren and a buffo with a flat voice that quivers whenever he enters tenor range! The chorus was about the only good thing about it, the brief ballet was atrocious. The third trombone and the bassoon – try to see if they can find a job they can actually do without damaging my hearing and get me players that know their instruments and know how to play them."

Nadir managed to chuckle slightly. Erik, despite his clear anger, wasn't without a sense of humor. He made a few mental notes, knowing that the managers will not be pleased and that Erik certainly wasn't to allow these imperfections to be repeated.

"Very well, but what excuse should I give them for your absence? They're almost shouting that they must grant you the respect you deserve."

"Who says I am absent, my persistent friend? For all you know, I could be standing right beside you and you wouldn't see me." Nadir drew a breath – he had been correct, he was still here! Or on the way out of the building… perhaps he could try to gather some hints… "I have no use for crowds or the press. I need to get back to my composing – not only because I must, but also to drown this horrid experience in something pleasant."

"And so you throw me to the wolves again?"

"You said it yourself – I pay you for that." The voice replied, with a hint of mischief. "Give them the old story. I am too preoccupied, I send my regards, I am not currently in the country… etc., etc., etc. I hope that you will remember the corrections and tell the managers what I think about how they ruined my opera tonight once the press is out of sight. We don't want bad advertisement, do we? I'll contact you tomorrow, if anything happens, my phone number is coded in your cell phone, you know how to reach me."

"Yes, but I never see the number itself." Nadir muttered to himself. "One would think you would be a little more trusting to people you consider friends."

"But you know too well that I am very different from most people. Just tell them what I said and get some rest." There was only a slight note of concern in the voice. Not out of compassion, however. "You'll be needing loads of energy tomorrow. A demain, mon ami." The beeping signified that the connection had been severed.

Nadir lowered the phone, looking at it. Yeah, tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that. If he would survive the pestering of the managers. Well, there was always a chance that they would have a heart attack when he would announce that Erik was less than pleased with the finished opera.

There was a knock on the door and Nadir quickly returned the cell into the pocket of his suit. He assumed that the managers had returned, probably eager to open the party and drag him in front of a large pack of reporters to make a statement in Erik's place, since the composer himself wasn't present. Well, now that he had the information he needed, he would manage, he thought.

Predictably, the managers were waiting right outside the office when he left it. Both were middle-aged, with graying hair, their suits showing that they were both middle class trying to raise their social status. Both smiled in a nervous way, but still very brightly, as he closed the door behind him.

Nadir remembered the bitter irony of fate as he walked with them towards the quasi-ballroom where the press and the elite was waiting for the party to officially begin, probably gossiping about how wonderful the opera had been. If they only knew what he knew, if they had only seen what he had seen. Then, perhaps, they would understand a fraction of the true genius, the true beauty of what they had just witnessed.

The greater irony was that the one who had created that beauty would ensure that they never would.

X X X

The lavishly decorated ballroom gave off a slightly Mardi Grass-like atmosphere, which Christine found she didn't like compared to the simplicity of the set for the opera. Every woman was dressed in a long and wide gown that sparkled so much it should be sanctioned. There were just too many sequins around her! At least the men were clad in matching black suits to compensate that whirlpool of color.

However, she didn't notice what Sorelli did – that every single woman that passed Christine gave her a look of utter astonishment, absorbed the entire splendor of the dress she was wearing and then their faces turned a color not too different from that of the dress. And she didn't notice what Raoul did – that each man eyed Christine, some simply because of the dress, others because they found her attractive.

Christine, however, was blind to all of this, her eyes upon the microphone near the other end of the rectangular room. Two men were standing there, along with another, who stood slightly behind them. The former two were clearly the managers, she deduced – plain, but attempting to catch attention, their hair graying slightly, but they attempted to camouflage it somewhat. They had the unmistakable look of a pair of respectable but overeager merchants, ready to sell.

The other man had caught her attention more, however. He towered the managers slightly, but otherwise was of mostly medium built. Despite the fashionable suit he wore, the difference between him and the managers was obvious – it wasn't the fact that he bore the clear signs of being of Islamic culture, with his bronze complexion, black hair and jade eyes. It was that he alone seemed to be immersed in his own thoughts, not caring about any kind of impression he was making. It took some skill to spot someone who clearly didn't like being center-stage, but Christine knew that this man was somehow important. Suddenly, interviewing the managers, as Lefévre had instructed her to, wasn't top on her list of things to do.

The taller manager eventually took the microphone and called for silence. Christine remembered her job once more and quickly turned on the audio recorder in her purse. As the noisy ballroom quieted down and applauded him and his colleague, he smiled and nodded jovially.

"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to welcome you to our post-premiere celebration. My name is Firmin Richard and I and my colleague, Mr. Armand Moncharmin, would like to thank you for attending this opening night and hope you enjoyed the premiere of our latest production, _La Grue._" There was another round of applause and the crowd eagerly awaited the rest of the speech. Richard shifted a bit. "Alas, we must disappoint you, hopefully for the first time tonight, but informing you that we, regrettably, do not have the privilege of introducing our dear friend and composer, Erik, to you tonight. However," he continued hastily, seeing the general disappointment, "Mr. Nadir Khan, his agent and manager, has received a phone call from him and is ready to speak in his name."

The eagerness returned to the crowd and they applauded as Nadir stepped forward and took the microphone. He drew a breath and remembered the lines Erik had taught him briefly before speaking. "Thank you, Mr. Richard. I too, wish you a good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Unfortunately, I must confirm that Erik was unable to come to this wonderful celebration. He sends his regards, however, and sincerely hopes that you enjoyed the opera. There are rumors spreading, I understand, that he is currently working on a new opera. I can officially confirm that it is true, but details are being kept even from me, so I can tell you little beyond the fact that he devotes all of his time to it."

Christine frowned. She caught the fact that Mr. Khan never mentioned that Erik was unable to attend the premiere itself, only the celebration. Others might not have noticed it, but then again, they had not seen the shadow in the composer's own booked box. She trusted her instinct on this.

"If the press has any questions, I am willing to answer them, if I can."

Like predators sensing a would-be prey, the reporters present moved forward, raising several hands. General questions took over, easy to answer, and Nadir was relieved to see that the English were slightly more restrained than the French when it came to eager questions.

Questions like: What other works is Erik planning? What is his highest goal? What is his greatest artistic ambition? Where does he want to go now? Why had he chosen Britain for this premiere? Those were easy to answer with the information he had. He made up a few phrases just to appease them, but knew that it wouldn't matter much to Erik, should he find out. The last question, however predictable, was what he had been hoping all evening he wouldn't have to endure.

"Why doesn't Mr. Erik reveal his last name?" asked a squat, fifty-something year old reporter with long mousy brown hair tied in a ponytail. "Does he have something to fear or hide?"

Christine searched for the source of the rudeness and found it quickly. Though they had never met in person, she would know Joe Buquet everywhere. His photos were all over the internet… along with complaints and attempts to charge him formally of deceit and untrue or inaccurate information. She sighed hard.

"My good man, do you know Cher´s last name?" Nadir asked, with a slight smile. There was a collective laugh. It was clear that this answer appeased the crowd. Buquet, however, only shrugged and then gave Nadir a strange look of mixed eagerness and uncaring. Christine, who was watching him, felt certain that Buquet was planning on sticking his overly large nose where it had no business.

Biting her lip, Christine raised her hand. Nadir saw her and nodded in her general direction, allowing her to go ahead with the question she wanted to pose all evening. "I would like to know what classical music Mr. Erik prefers, what style or which composer. Where does he get his inspiration?"

Nadir frowned slightly. This question was tricky. One thing was clear – Erik had a very specific taste when it came to music. But he wasn't certain whether it was the inspiration for his own music. However, saying that would mean he would have to answer the second question and that he would, by Allah, never do without asking permission.

"A tricky question, Miss." He confessed at last. "I'd say he loves music as a whole. He would define what he dislikes as noise only, I can tell you that much. However, I can safely say that he dislikes Meyerbeer, as he was quite outraged when he saw that his work was scheduled for the day after the performance of _Le Prophète_ at the Palais Garnier. If I recall correctly, he mentioned that he might have to go sing _Se vuol balare _– I do hope I remember the Italian correctly; there was more – to the managers to remind them of the situation."

Christine smiled and nodded a thank you. She understood the joke, though even Nadir didn't, apparently. Figaro's famous cavatina from _Le nozze di Figaro_ that translated into English as: "If you want to dance, little Count, then I shall set the tune." The idea was clear: the managers were to understand who was boss. Elegant, hidden, amusing. So he had a sense of humor, this Erik, albeit a little strange… and he liked Mozart.

"If there are no more questions, I would like to officially open the ball." Nadir said politely, receiving another round of applause from the managers and the crowds, the former immediately dragging him into a conversation. Christine turned off her audio recorder. At once, Raoul was at her side, smiling.

"I do hope that concludes the work part of this evening." He said sincerely, offering her his arm. "May I have this dance, Little Lotte?" he asked as the small chamber orchestra began playing one of Strauss's waltzes.

Christine laughed lightly. "But of course, my Prince Charming." And accepted the hand.

She forgot her fatigue and began enjoying herself again. however, after as powerful an experience as this opera, there was little that could actually impress her more. Besides, she had never been much of a dancer and with Sorelli checking every once in a while that her dress was still intact, despite the fact that she had a pleasant conversation with Raoul, she was quite pleased when at last the party was over. She didn't drink much and avoided most people – all of them, actually, with the exception of her companions. When she had gone to get a glass of wine, she spotted Sorelli, who had saved her from another dance with Raoul by grabbing him to dance with her while she gave a slightly disapproving look to Philip, who was chatting with some business colleagues.

There was no time to accept the idea a small part of her mind was giving her – that she should sneak away and go see the dark box herself, just to see what had happened, if someone had really been there, before the boxkeepers would make it look "as good as new". It was past midnight when they returned to their limo and Sorelli was slightly tipsy by then. Christine talked with Raoul most of the time and they agreed to meet on Monday, after Christine would be done at the _Deacon._ She gave him the address and the time and allowed him to kiss her cheek. They drove her straight to her house and she stood waving for a while before entering the building.

Inside, she found Meg snoring slightly on the couch, the TV still playing the last scenes of _Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring._ With a slight smile, Christine turned the television set off and fetched a blanket for her friend. Then she managed to get the dress off, very carefully, not to upset Sorelli, and deliberately turned off her alarm clock. Tomorrow, she would finally relax for a while and visit Mrs. Valerius… and then she would write down the article that was already finished in her mind. She smiled weakly at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth.

Before she went to bed, however, she searched a bit and found her copy of Solti´s recording of _Le nozze di Figaro_. She would listen to it a bit during breakfast tomorrow, she decided. What was wrong with attempting to answer the question she herself had posed, she asked herself.


	6. Chapter 6

This chapter is a bit longer and pretty Erik-less, but I promise that he will make his grand entrance in the next one, which will be a bit of a counterpoint. Hopefully, you ECers will forgive me the scene with Raoul, but it was a necessity. Raoul isn't the bad guy – the story doesn't have a bad guy, which is the beauty of it.

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**Chapter 6**

X X X X

Christine woke up first the next morning, and, careful not to wake a still snoring Meg, she went to make some breakfast for them both. She usually ate something pretty un-English for breakfast, usually some cereal or something light. With Meg present, however – Meg, who ate thrice as much as normal people and maintained a girlish slim figure with no trouble at all – she decided to make some eggs and toast, at least. It was only seven am, but Christine wasn't tired at all. Once Meg woke up at nine, the brunette found her friend fully dressed in a lavender colored t-shirt and jeans.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Christine smiled as she laid the finished breakfast in front of the sleepy-eyed and messy-haired Meg, who was still fully dressed, having fallen asleep mid-movie. "I made you something good – hopefully I still have some orange juice for you."

Meg yawned loudly as she sat down, but then smiled. "I must've fallen asleep. But someone's in a good mood here. Don't think that making me breakfast is getting you out of telling me everything. Now, while I eat, I want to hear every juicy detail of what happened. Don't hide anything from me, Chris – you know you can't lie to Auntie Megan. Now, what were you kids doing? It was pretty late by the time you turned up, I imagine."

"I went there because it's my job, Meg, not because I am desperate for a date unlike some people I could name in this room." Meg gave her a dirty look for a quick moment, but remained silent, simply giving Christine the puppy face that was quite impossible to refuse. "We went there, saw the opera and danced at the party afterwards. They drove me home afterwards… and yes, another date is scheduled." Meg squealed and Christine translated it as a date inquiry. "Tomorrow." Meg squealed even louder. Fortunately for Christine, she toasted her with a glass of juice that Christine had brought her and was silenced by drinking.

Christine sat down as well, eating some cereal while Meg gave triumphant looks. They ate in brief silence before Christine remembered the CD she had prepared last night. The spoon still in her mouth, she dashed to her room and took it. Once she returned, she put it straight into the nearest CD player, earning a surprised and amused look from Meg. She skipped several tracks, right to the cavatina she had been told about yesterday and sat down just as the secco _Bravo, signor padrone!_ began.

"Now you're turning into a semi-maniac when it comes to opera?" Meg asked, half-laughing and almost choking on her toast.

Christine shook her head with an absent-minded smile. "Just trying to make a few things clear. I got a few answers that were slightly unclear."

Now Meg laughed. "And you think listening to an opera will clear things up for you? Chris, I know that look on your face, I've seen it before! You're in love!" Christine gasped, outraged. "I knew it! I knew that Raoul was the right guy for you! Oh, I can see it right now!" she gestured wildly, "A perfect romance with the cutest guy around! You're just damned lucky, Chris!"

"Cut it out before you start imagining a wedding with yourself as a bridesmaid, Megster." Christine finished her cereal with a headshake. "Just because I agreed to go out with him once doesn't mean we're getting married or anything. But… maybe I won't be shouting on you for playing the matchmaker, for once."

"Chris, honey, just relax, I'm simply saying that he's a nice guy and you might actually stop being a social recluse for a while."

Christine stood up and put her empty bowl into the kitchen sink. "Maybe. Listen, I can't really stay, I promised Mrs. Valerius that I'd come to visit today, she might be up by now, so I don't want to keep her waiting too long. Stay as long as you like, just lock the door when you leave – you have the keys, right?"

Meg nodded. "Sure. Say hello to Mrs. V for me!"

Mrs. Valerius lived not too far from Christine's home. Actually, Christine had chosen Richmond as the location for her new apartment after moving to make sure she wasn't far from Hounslow, where she and her father had lived for many years in the Valerius household. Mrs. Valerius was an elderly lady now, a widow whose only companion now was a parrot called Elvis, named thus because he had overheard some of the famous singer's songs from the neighbor's house and there had been a time when he wouldn't stop repeating phrases like "Love me tender" or "You ain´t nothin´ but a hound dog", though surprisingly, singing them out in tune. It had been a gift from Christine after she had gotten her own flat. Christine didn't really want to leave, but Mrs. Valerius had been the one that encouraged her to live her own life.

"You are young, Christine, and your life is ahead of you." she had said then. "You must live in the present, not the past." Slightly unwillingly, Christine had complied and left the old household. But always, she returned.

The old lady had been patiently putting some cookies to bake into the oven when Christine had arrived, smiling with her slightly more wrinkled face than the face Christine remembered from her childhood.

"Christine, dear, so nice of you to come! Ah, but I see you're alone – I'm guessing your young man isn't much of a morning person, yes?" Christine quickly smiled and went to help her guardian with the cookies. She wasn't exactly spectacular when it came to cooking, but at least she managed to help by giving Mrs. Valerius things she needed. Once they sat down at the table as they waited for the cookies to be ready, Mrs. Valerius asked if she had enjoyed herself at the opera.

Christine nodded. "I had a wonderful time. I had my doubts when we came there but after hearing that… I just wish Papa could have heard it." She sighed. "He would have loved to play that music."

"Oh, but your father hears the music, child!" Mrs. Valerius said seriously. "He watches from the Heavens and guides your step. Why, I remember that he promised to send you an Angel to watch over you – an Angel of Music – and you know that your father, Lord bless him, never for a moment lied to you about that!"

Looking down, Christine wondered whether or not she should tell Mrs. Valerius that she hadn't believed in the Angel anymore until yesterday… but that Angel was a man that neither knew her nor wished to know anyone. However, Mrs. Valerius´s devotion raised one small doubt within her: why didn't he want to be known? Perhaps Buquet, for all his stupidity, had a point in that. But Christine never for a moment considered the fact that it was because of some shadow of the past. Such divine music couldn't be the product of an evil person!

But what if…

She shook her head. That was a ridiculous, childish idea.

"Don't sway in your faith, Christine." Mrs. Valerius said kindly, misinterpreting the headshake, not seeing into her charge's head. "Your Angel will come to you. Perhaps when you expect it the least."

For the rest of the day, they talked about mundane matters. Mrs. Valerius listened carefully, with clear interest, as Christine told her about Raoul and their evening at the opera house. She seemed very pleased, jumping into Christine's story only here and there and clearly saw what Meg had seen before, though she didn't comment on it – a kind of glow was geminating from Christine, the spark that only love creates. Unlike Meg, however, the elderly lady felt quite sure that it was the memory of Christine's father and his promises of an angel that brought the sudden change to Christine.

Christine wasn't one to smile often. Whatever conjured up a smile on her features or at least wiped away the permanently sad look from her face had Mrs. Valerius´s approval. It had been singing before her father's death, writing afterwards and now, this. Hopefully, it would last at least a couple of months.

"Your appointment with the doctor is this week, isn't it?" Christine asked with concern. "When? I could give you a life there…"

"Oh, no, no, my dear, no need for that." Mrs. Valerius said with a smile. "I can manage just fine; the arthritis isn't that bad yet. Let's not talk about that right now." A small ping from the oven signaled that the third cookies were ready. "Now, why don't you go sit in the living room and watch some telly while I finish these cookies?"

Christine obeyed, but collected her purse along the way. She had brought a pen and some papers with her, preferring to write by hand when around Mrs. Valerius, who was against computers in general, claiming that they sapped the life out of people through their magnetic energy and God knows what else. curling her legs up on the couch into a ball – she had taken her slippers off, naturally – she used a thicker old magazine as a quasi-table and stared into space for a while before deciding that she might as well turn on the TV. There was so much nonsense showed there, she might actually get some inspiration.

How was one to describe the divine without sounding mad, however?

By the time Mrs. Valerius came with milk and cookies, she had hardly written anything at all and quickly crossed the lines out at once. She accepted a cookie with a slightly impatient thanks and began scribbling furiously. She tried to tune out all distractions and recall what she had felt during that night. Suddenly, a part of her decided that it might be best not to mention the moment when she had seen the shade in the dark box on the grand tier.

Several hours later, she had finished the article, exhausted, and sincerely apologized to Mrs. Valerius for being so immersed in her work and distant.

"You are about to get promoted, Christine – I can understand you want to do your best. But if you shan´t take these cookies home, I shall be obliged to be angry." The pure humor in the old lady's voice was clear, but Christine took the cookies nevertheless. She didn't want to test if the threat was real or not.

The next day, she was at work early and was waiting in front of Lefévre´s office before he or Jammes even arrived. The secretary gave her a surprised look as she sat down behind her desk.

"Are you trying to make up for the last deadline, Chris?" she asked, quickly unpacking. "Because trust me, girl, becoming an insomniac won't do you any good. You do too much work already."

"No, I just really need him to have a look at this." She waved the paper with the finished and printed article in her hand. "It's meant for today's issue and I need to know if he wants any corrections, because it was a tough cookie to crack." Only she was able to enjoy the hidden joke.

"Indeed?" a familiar voice sounded from behind Christine. She turned and saw the boss himself, briefcase still in hand, and the _Times _in his other hand, marching towards his office. "Well, then I eagerly expect to read this masterpiece of yours, Miss Daaé."

"G´morning, Mr. Lefévre." Jammes said, slightly too cheerfully for an early morning, from her desk. "You've had no calls yet, but there's a stack of emails waiting for you."

"Thank you, Miss Thurman. Miss Daaé, would you come to my office? My hands are full at the moment." Christine nodded and opened the office door for him, earning a thank you. She followed and waited a bit impatiently while he put down his things and took off his coat.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning, Mr. Lefévre, but I really think you ought to have a read of this before it gets printed. I had some trouble with the reviewing and that was the key part of the article."

"Was it that bad and you didn't wish to be too critical?" Lefévre asked.

Christine shook her head at once. "No, it was anything but bad. It was simply… divine. I can't describe it otherwise. I've never heard anything quite like it." Lefévre was already reading the introduction of the article. "It's a completely different approach to classical music and the fact that the composer's surrounded by a cloud of mystery only adds to the fact. I searched the internet forwards-backwards and found nothing except some forums debating who he might be. Not a word, nothing official, just debates. And that doesn't shed much light on him."

Lefévre looked up from the page with a slightly quizzical look. "You seem very interested in this composer, Miss Daaé."

"I imagine there isn't anyone who has heard his music that wouldn't be." Christine confessed. She bit her lip. "I know this might be slightly out of my league – I'm not an investigative journalist, I know – but I was wondering if I might be able to… do some more research on him. I'm sure that after the premiere of _La Grue_, the whole city will be interested. Word gets round quickly."

There was a moment of silence and Lefévre looked at Christine, as if trying to see her thoughts. Christine herself wasn't quite certain why she had asked that. "Supposing I accept that proposal, where do you suppose you'll get any kind of information on this guy? You yourself write here that no one actually knows his surname or if Erik is his real name. how do you think you'll manage to get any closer than what you write here?"

Christine shrugged. "I was thinking more of analyzing his work methods and what other people around the opera house think about him. I mean, who knows? Maybe one day, he will actually decide to show up. People eventually get bored of playing hide and seek. It will take some time for me to gather the information, but I have it confirmed that he's working on another opera. Perhaps I could convince the managers to allow me to sit through the rehearsals, once they begin – after all, it would be great advertising for everyone, not to mention that both solved and unresolved mysteries attract readers."

For a while, Lefévre´s eyes didn't move from the paper, but it was obvious that he was in deep thought even though he read every word of the article. When he had finished reading the last sentence, he nodded in approval, though almost to himself.

"I'll have Miss Thurman give it to Mr. Rémy for edits, though I think no major changes will be needed. You've done a great job, Miss Daaé, I'm glad that my trust in you hasn't been misplaced." At last he looked up at Christine and managed a brief smile, most uncommon for the stern Frenchman. "After this, I have a hunch you would do well in the art department, but you've expressed your concerns about placement there, so you will, until you perhaps change your mind, remain in the political department, the world news section. You will be doing front-page articles from now on, so I expect nothing less than the professionalism you've showed in the past."

Christine beamed, the workaholic in her awakening. "Thank you so much, Mr. Lefévre!"

"Now, before you depart to celebrate this with Miss Giry once she arrives, I would like to offer my congratulations and, as a promotion gift, if you will, I give you my full permission to continue working on the opera article." Christine slightly overwhelmed now. She hadn't considered that he might actually agree! "Miss Thurman will inform you when she manages to set up an appointment with the managers, so that you can explore the opera house a bit more, if you will."

Understanding that she was dismissed, Christine thanked him again and left. Once outside, her mind silently screamed YES! And she actually did a little pirouette on the spot. Jammes laughed slightly.

"Well, look who's jubilant today. You look like you won the lottery."

"Something better." Christine waved goodbye and almost floated to her desk. She saw that Meg was already seated there, in her chair, playing a bit with her digital camera. She looked up when she saw Christine, smiling.

"Morning, Chris. Just wanted to say hi before heading off, there was an ad about a photography contest in the papers, I might go see what it's all about."

"Good morning to you too. Before you go, there's a favor I'd like to ask of you."

"As long as it doesn't mean something illegal, you know you can count on me." Meg said with a wink.

"No, it's work, actually. I got the promotion – and permission from Lefévre to go back to the opera house for a little investigation. I was wondering if you could come with me, I don't have the dates and times yet, but I'll tell you when I do."

"Investigation?" Meg asked, surprised, "Ah, you mean like when you were listening to that opera for answers?" Christine nodded. "No problem, a few pictures of the interior might be nice with that article. Gives people the right impression, you know? I'll do it, you can count on me, Chris."

Meg departed right after getting a thank you from Christine. The rest of the day went ordinarily enough – she delivered her article to Rémy and got it back, edited, read through it and gave it back. At four pm, her cell phone rang, and Raoul´s phone number appeared on the display.

"Hey, Raoul." Christine said once she pressed the yes button. "I'm almost done, if the date offer is still intact."

"Of course it is." Raoul´s voice said. "I hope you like green, Little Lotte."

She understood what he meant about an hour and a half later, when they left his car and entered the Kew Gardens. The Royal Botanic Gardens were certainly an impressive sight and large enough for them to spend several hours simply wandering around. Christine found herself far more relaxed around Raoul than she had been around her other "boyfriends", because they already knew each other and Raoul found it much easier to talk to Christine than to other women, because with them, he never knew if they were after his wealth or his heart. It was so much easier for both of them this way.

"I was very sad when I heard that you were gone from Upsala, you know." Raoul said when they stood near the Pagoda. "When I came back, I was looking forward to see you again very much, but you disappeared."

"Papa decided it might be better to see the world." Christine noted, remembering. "He had received an offer to try out for a place in an orchestra in London, so we literally moved right away. I've lived in England ever since."

"Funny, people say the world is a small place. Maybe it is." Raoul smiled, "Since we met again. I hate to sound sappy, but it seems to be destiny."

"You're not sappy." Christine noted, "You haven't changed one bit, you've just grown up slightly. But you still call me Little Lotte! I didn't think you'd remember."

"Some things are just hard to forget." Raoul muttered, slightly to himself. He didn't want to mention to her that he hadn't forgotten her for the entire time, hoping that he might reencounter her. Until a week ago, he had thought it was just a fantasy, that he might find the girl whose presence he had enjoyed so much again. but now, a real-life Christine stood beside him, slightly windswept and certainly no dream. She had also grown… and became even more beautiful.

The first girl for who he actually cared and, when it came down to it, the only. With the others, it had been physical attraction, the need for affection, since his older brother was now his only family, lust, perhaps. But with Christine, all was different.

Christine smiled kindly. "Yes, my father's stories are the most fantastic fairytales, they always made me smile."

"I am very sorry to hear that he is gone. He was a very great man and an amazing musician."

"It's alright. I still feel sad sometimes, but I try to manage. And besides, I still have Mrs. Valerius."

"And me." Raoul noted gently, taking her hands in his. Christine looked down, as if uncertain that the touch her hands felt was reality or a deception of the senses. She looked so innocent… Raoul couldn't look at her without wanting to kiss her. However, he had been taught the manners that went with his title. He let go after a moment. "You'll always have me, Christine. Whenever you need anything, you need only to ask."

Christine felt her cheeks reddening slightly and she looked at the Pagoda. "Maybe Meg was right…" she muttered to herself.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that?" Raoul asked, puzzled.

"Oh, nothing." Christine dismissed his concerns. She looked at him and smiled again. "Thank you again for taking me here. I don't know how long it was since I last came here."

"Well, we're not leaving before we've been to The Marianne North Gallery and the minka." Raoul noted, his voice regaining strength quickly. "That's a Japanese wooden house, pretty new. They didn't have one like that in the opera, I think."

Offering her a hand which she accepted, he led her through the gardens. It was a perfectly sunny spring day, so they stayed for several hours, lingering a few minutes even after sundown. They talked about everything and anything, though they never came close to the subject of their relationship. Still, both felt that perhaps they had found something that might have a future longer than a week and even if not, they were not willing to forsake the bonds of a newly resumed friendship. Afterwards, Raoul gave her a lift home. Their parting wasn't sealed with a kiss or an embrace, merely with shy smiles and an awkward handshake during which both felt something.

Christine collapsed on her bed once she got back to the apartment. She hadn't felt so good in a very long time. Her happiness was complete when she found a message on her answering machine and Jammes´s voice informed her that she could start her new article tomorrow – the management of the Royal Opera House had agreed to allow that after consulting with their patron, Philip de Chagny, who had apparently told them that he knew Christine, which served as another reason why they should allow this. After all, they probably wanted to squeeze more money out of the de Chagny family, and supporting Christine seemed the ideal way to influence their decisions.

Still smiling, she changed the opera CD for a slightly more modern genre - musical – and chose _Wicked_. It felt right to listen to the song _I couldn't be happier _right now.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for the vote of confidence, Soignante and congratulations on completing Binary – I loved it.

In this chapter: The fateful encounter! And, as promised, Erik makes his grand entrance.

X X X

**Chapter 7**

X X X X

Her cell phone had been what had woken her from a very pleasant dream. The alarm clock on it was set in the tones of the overture to Carmen, which was more than enough to cause Christine to jump out of bed quickly. She was early to work, as usual, but today, she felt almost as if she wasn't going to real work at all – merely going out with a friend to have some great fun.

She and Meg had previously agreed that they would meet at the entrance to the Royal Opera House at nine, so that they would have loads of time on their hands to explore the whole place. Rehearsals wouldn't begin until the afternoon, so there was much time to spare. Quickly dressing up in a plain white blouse and pastel pink skirt, Christine set out for Covent Garden. She anticipated that Meg would be at least ten minutes late, so she was in no hurry.

Predictably, she had to wait for fifteen minutes before the brunette turned up, her hair a mess and dressed in baby blue. She was enthusiastic, however, and Christine didn't want to wipe that expression of delight by pointing out the little delay. The pair entered the building easily and the nearest person pointed them directly to the managers´s offices. They found their way without much trouble, though Meg would constantly stare at every detail of the interior of the opera house.

Christine knocked firmly on the door and a "come in!" from within was enough to grant them entrance. Only one of the managers, Moncharmin, was present, but he stood up to shake Christine's hand enthusiastically when she entered, followed by Meg, who closed the door.

"Miss Daaé, isn't it? And Miss Giry, I believe. A great pleasure to meet you. Your employer, Mr. Lefévre, had told us you would be coming today. I must confess, me and my colleague, Mr. Richard, are most delighted that your magazine is taking such an interest in out little opera house." Covert Garden was far from little and Meg almost rolled her eyes at what a mess of things he was making. "Normally, I would send someone to accompany you, but unless you venture into the staff part, I doubt you will get lost. Of course, the staff is aware of your presence, so feel free to ask for any help or directions."

Christine nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Moncharmin. I have heard that you will be also performing the production Palais Garnier has opened some time ago, _La vendetta del cielo_, Erik's first work, soon."

The manager nodded. "Indeed, we would wish to rehearse it, but whatever leads we present to our dear composer, he rejects. I understand that he wrote the music for a very specific type of voice and he is very much the perfectionist – he dislikes any soloist that tried it, even La Carlotta's amazing voice didn't seem right to him. However, compromises must be made at times, as he has to understand, and Carlotta is our greatest star, along with Signor Ubaldo Piangi."

"I have heard them both in La Grue." Christine said, remembering Carlotta's penetrating soprano that was almost like a drill digging into her and Piangi´s tenor that had entirely too much vibrato. However, that was merely a mark of how strong their voices were. Both were exceptional singers, there could be no denying of that. They had the talent, the technique and the fame.

"Yes, indeed, a great success." A telephone on his desk rang. "I apologize sincerely, ladies, but work calls. Feel free to move through our opera house, friends of the Count de Chagny are always welcome."

Christine and Meg both said their thanks and left Moncharmin to the phone call. Once outside, Meg proceeded to mock his expressions silently, stopping only when one of the cleaning ladies passed them. Christine wasn't paying much attention to that. She knew where they would start this little journey – and that place was the stage itself. She could see the line in the article already: _Only when I stood upon the world-famous stage and faced those empty seats could I imagine just how heroic the singers and dancers on stage must be, to face the challenge of pleasing and appeasing our deepest dreams and desires through image and sound…_

They returned to the ground floor and made their way through the great hall. Or rather, Christine did. Meg stared, open-mouthed, and once she recovered, she quickly whipped out her camera and began taking pictures of everything she could see. Christine heard the flash sounds behind her, but didn't turn. Carefully, she avoided the immense orchestra pit and walked up the small set of stairs that led to the stage. With each step, she was slower, until Meg, who by now was behind her, almost crashed into her and nudged her.

The view from the stage was breathtaking. It was beautifully terrifying and Christine found herself looking at dozens of empty rows of seats, the grand tier, the balconies, the many boxes…. She almost felt naked as she imagined all of those seats taken and the many people that would be staring at her right now, should she attempt to come there during a performance. Suddenly, she had no idea how her father had thought that she would be a diva of the stage. She was shrinking even from the thought that she could be facing a full house and there were only empty seats!

Another flash woke her up from that frightening daydream.

"This is so cool!" Meg chattered happily, taking a picture of the stage, another of the front rows, another of the chandelier that proudly hung from the decorated ceiling. "This is the most wonderful place I have ever taken pictures of, absolutely wonderful! If I find a good angle, I might have a pic I can send to a contest! Wow…"

"It seems unnatural that a non-magnified voice would be able to fill this place." Christine muttered to herself. She had almost forgotten the brief vocal training she had received as a child. "Acoustics must be amazing here, but still…"

"Try it, then!" Meg said suddenly, lowering her camera briefly. "Sing something – test it for yourself! Some things you just have to do yourself, Chris."

Christine looked at her, slightly frightened. "Me? Sing? Meg, I haven't sung since… forever! My voice has no training or technique! I could damage my vocal chords by screaming and you would keep telling me that I should rather speak quietly!"

Meg made a tsk-ing noise. "Honey, just do as I say. It will be a great comparison, just to see if it can really be done. Really, I thought the point of this whole article was research. What are you afraid of?"

What was she afraid of, really?

She had no answer.

Christine sighed in resignation. "Then I'll sing something, because I'm not going to just start shouting out random things. Pick a song."

"I don't think the kind of music I listen to is fitting for this place, you know." Meg noted sheepishly. Most of what she listened to was techno and punk rock. "And you wouldn't know those songs. You're in an opera house, sing opera. You're bound to know at least one a-aria, or whatever it's called, I don't know, but you listen to the stuff all the time, so you must know something."

"Language?"

"English, if I may suggest it." Meg said, with the slightest sarcasm.

Christine ignored it. "Alright, I've got one. _Hannibal_, I doubt you know that one. It's a drama, but very beautiful, they use elephants on-stage when the opening of act II begins…"

Meg cleared her throat slightly. "Chris? The song, in this century? Hmm?"

Sighing in resignation, Christine took her place on the stage. She had seen how Carlotta stood, straightened up with her head high. But she couldn't do it, because she was afraid such a stance would hinder her throat. Instead, she stood slightly rigidly, remembering all she could about creating a tone properly before she inhaled deeply.

_Relax your throat…inhale deeply with a smile to relax… attempt to yawn to open your throat… close your eyes to position the tone between your eyes… start from the top, never from the bottom… relax… don't push when you have no breath… open your mouth…_

The introduction played in her head and she began, directly on cue.

X X X

From dawn, Erik had been sitting in his private box in the Royal Opera House. The creative atmosphere, the air of art, were more pleasing than his solitary apartment, the address that was unknown to anyone who cared and meaningless for anyone who didn't. after agreeing to premiere his newest opera in London, he had almost at once taken up the task of securing an apartment there.

It was necessary to supervise his work like this, unseen by the rest of the people that helped make his dreams a reality. God only knew that they would never, ever leave him in peace once they would see him. Always they would wonder what lay beneath the mask, why he chose to wear it, why he was as he was.

Well, he would secure that no one would ever need to concern themselves with these questions. Unfortunately, one person felt the need to do so.

Nadir Khan. The man had saved his life and reappeared months previously in an attempt to seek him out. To check if he was behaving like a good little boy? The very idea was laughable. Nadir knew well that Erik had kept the promise of being a respectable artist and not a possible blackmailer or a thief purely because the thought that the Iranian had claimed that he had a conscience and self-appointed himself as his keeper… and the thought had been a good one, the memory of a friend.

Thus he had proceeded to rebuild his life after returning from the Middle East, beginning as a simple composer who blew Paris off its feet and made it crash loudly on its backside by the divine music he had produced. To focus his darker moods on something, he had begun composing another opera, his first, the only one that would never be performed, never played for any other person. It was only for his eyes, because it was the product of his own twisted imagination and pained soul.

Don Juan Triumphant.

He had once read that Mozart's overture to Don Giovanni was the Don's image painted by music. If that applied to all music, then Don Juan Triumphant was the image of him, and a realistic one. It frightened him and consumed him… he needed to compose something lighter, something he could sell to the world in exchange for the riches he needed to secure his comfort and solitude.

His first work, an opera seria called _La vendetta del cielo_, was a tragedy, but a victory on stage. Naturally, the singers that had sung the leads had been good enough, but in his eyes and ears, there was the image of the perfect voice for each range, and none of them had been that. He himself had sung the entire opera to himself whilst composing it, using his flawless voice as a tool to correct any mistakes – there were none, but he viewed the things he had yet to alter as mistakes.

His voice was his greatest weapon and unquestionably his greatest beauty. It was a flawlessly trained instrument that could be booming and dark as thunder in one moment and soft as angels´ voices in the next, at will. He wielded this weapon with deadly accuracy and none who had heard it could resist it. With an amazing range, unique timbre and pure emotion, he would have made an extraordinary career as an opera singer, as he could sing all the ranges from baritone to sopranist.

His talents spanned from art of all kinds to science and, as Nadir often thought and said, he could have held the world in the palm of his hand, had he wanted it. The world would have celebrated him as the greatest scholar it has ever known and he would go down in history as the prodigy that had designed buildings at seven, that had mastered the piano at six, that had composed his own requiem at twelve.

But that could never be.

The hiding and fleeing from all of society had been caused by his one flaw that had made him forever an outcast of society, exiled him from the human race, of which he spoke with contempt, as if he was not part of the species at all. The reason he wore his mask, the beautiful and soft white material clinging to him like a second skin. And that is what it was, truly.

It served for the comfort of others, because if they would see his face, they would flee in terror. It had been a genetic flaw, Erik had deduced, but that did nothing to comfort him. His face was a tragedy, the one thing he couldn't make disappear. The face of Death.

Erik almost laughed bitterly. He was dead and he had never lived! And so his life began anew, as the mysterious composer that enchanted the world with his music, but refused to step out of the shadows into the spotlight. All thought it was simply a clever move to bring attention to his work. Except for him, only Nadir knew the real reason for this.

Should the world see his face, they wouldn't care how beautiful his music was… they would cast him out entirely.

Today, he had arrived at Covent Garden to compose a bit more for the next opera he was currently writing. It was to be an opera buffa this time, but he had no definite plot outline, and he wanted to experiment a bit before he would begin his work on the third of the Figaro trilogy, the last of the plays that hadn't been yet made into an opera. He wanted to do it justice, to match and perhaps surpass the works of Rossini and Mozart, who had composed the music for the first two. He knew both scores by heart, though he considered the second more memorable.

But grim melodies came from his mind to the paper and he couldn't think of a cheerful tune that day. Instead, he wrote down another fragment of a trio for Don Juan, which appeased him for a moment. he was careful not to make a mess – he wanted to ensure that no one would ever be suspicious of the box he now considered his own, the box from which he had watched the premiere of _La Grue_ and left mid-ovation, thoroughly disgusted at how they had butchered up his work.

For a moment, his thoughts returned to the girl that had spotted him during that escape. He had seen little of her, as he had left quickly, so he remembered only her yellow hair and green dress, but it had been enough to unsettle him that she had managed to escape the trance of his music long enough to spot him. He would ensure that he would never again be that clumsy with his entrance and exit, that he had vowed that very night. No mere little girl would outmatch him in the disappearing game.

Several hours later, the first interruption occurred. He heard the doors opening beneath him, but he didn't leave his box to see who had entered. As far as he was concerned, there should be no rehearsals yet, so he didn't know who would have the nerve to come at this hour. Two soft sets of footsteps and then the first flash of light… within a second, Erik was hidden from view well enough that even if any of the intruders had looked directly into his box, they wouldn't see him

Gritting his teeth, he gathered his sheet music silently. He hadn't known that the managers had grown so bold that they would invite the press _after_ the production! Well, on their own heads, be it, he decided. whoever that person with the camera was, they would be punished well enough once Carlotta would make her grand entrance. That woman wouldn't be parted from cameras once they appeared.

A female voice, slightly squeaky, but clearly young, began chattering to her silent companion about photos. Erik frowned. From the lightness of the steps, he had deduced that the intruders would be females, but this one sounded like an eager tourist. However, the second woman was silent, and Erik, without any choice but to wait until they would leave – they would hear the door to his box open and close – decided that he might as well pay attention to what they actually wanted.

After all, he thought wryly, the Phantom of the Opera must know all about his opera house. He knew about that nickname… and, strangely, it appealed to him.

The second woman muttered something that made the chirpy one stop taking pictures and start convincing her that she should sing something. The other woman began arguing feebly, but Erik could feel that she didn't have the strength to stand up against the other one's willpower. _At least she knows her_ _limits, _he thought, and his opinion of the second woman rose slightly, _If only our leading lady had a similar sense of self-criticism and returned to her native Spain…_

His thoughts were cut short as the second woman finally agreed and chose _Hannibal_. Erik fully expected that he would very much regret not having brought some earplugs. Really, he should know better, he thought, after having to endure Carlotta for so long, earplugs were the natural and possible solution…

And suddenly, he forgot the previous thought as a blind ecstasy spread through him. The woman had begun singing Elisa's aria from act III… quietly, at first, then with increasing confidence. Everything around him seemed to vanish and he immersed himself in the voice, relishing every detail of it. It was liquid gold and silver with a tinge of diamonds here and there, with its purity and beautiful timbre that put every soprano he had ever heard to shame. There was such innocence in the voice! Obviously, it was in dire need of a lot of training – the woman pushed a bit once she came to the higher notes, but he immediately saw a great untapped potential…

"I can't do this, Meg." The woman suddenly said, stopping before the final cadenza. "It's too high for me, I can't hit the last note of the coloratura."

"But it worked!" the woman called Meg cheered, "You did it, I bet if I were sitting up in the last row of the upper balcony, I would have been able to hear you! The acoustics of this place are great!"

"We should get moving." Meg´s friend said, her voice still slightly higher from the singing. "If we're to interview the people around here, I'd start with La Diva and get it over with as soon as possible. We don't have all day, rehearsal begins at one p.m."

"Workaholic." Meg said with a slight sneer in her voice. "I suppose that if I were to search a dictionary, the term workaholic would be defined as: Christine Daaé."

Christine Daaé… Christine Daaé… the name repeated himself in Erik's mind. The Angel had a name, a name connected with heaven… Christine… suddenly, it sounded very beautiful, though it had been an ordinary name moments before. He would have to find out more about her and why she wasn't an employee of the opera house, a prima donna that would easily knock Carlotta from her high horse.

"Come on." Christine simply said, the smile clear in her pretty voice. The sound of footsteps showed that she and Meg had made their exit from the stage and went backstage to find some of the stars or the crew.

The only occupied box on the grand tier was empty with a whirl of black fabric, the figure left as abruptly as it had appeared there, leaving the box as it had been before, untouched.

The ghost flew after the angel.


	8. Chapter 8

I went through all the previous 7 chapters and (hopefully) got rid of any typos I was able to find. As for the awkward moments – well, I guess no book or story can be perfect without a few flaws. That would be too disturbing. As for the typos, however, I feel entitled to have a few of them – English isn't my native language (crowd gasps) and while I think I speak it well enough, even I make mistakes at times. Still, better to make mistakes in your second language than in your first. And better still if they are simply typos.

Sapphire Lupe – I really thought I should answer this review, despite the rules of this site. The review was probably the most encouraging one I have ever received. I might not write a book, but I've decided to write a libretto of La vendetta del cielo (though in English or my native language, I have yet to decide), a play, if you will, that I have mentioned here as Erik's previous work. Thank you for your support and faith in me – I'm glad that I've had such a positive influence on you and that you like the story.

Again, thank you.

PS: Chocolate for all of you people who know who Euterpe is without having to search the internet! And I'm particularly fond of Erik's nickname for Meg – it just sounded so fitting from his point of view. Did I mention I adore Greek and Roman mythology?

X X X

**Chapter 8**

X X X

The two young women progressed quite easily through the building, the only unnatural sound they made being the constant flashing of Meg´s camera. To balance out the brunette's chirpiness, Christine herself was feeling rather drained. She was having slight problems with inhaling and her throat felt slightly sore. The aria had caused that, naturally. She shouldn't have picked that one, despite its beauty. It was much too complicated, the jumps between tones too great…

_Or your voice is simply too weak._ She told herself and began to believe it. _Why Papa ever believed that I would become an opera singer, I'll never know. _

Even if she had a trained voice, she wasn't guessing that she would ever be more than a soft mezzo or a soubrette soprano, which, despite its lightness, was often replaced by a full mezzo, because the tones sounded fuller and richer than those of a soubrette.

Christine asked herself why she was even thinking of this and refused to listen to the small part of her conscience that clearly told her the answer. The truth was, it had been her dream to become an opera singer. But that was a time long past, a chapter of her life that had been read and closed. She would never sing on the stage, she didn't have the will or the ability. The more she told herself this, the more she believed it.

What confirmed it to her even more was when they finally managed to locate La Carlotta. Carlotta, when she wasn't wearing the black wig and white kimono she had worn in _La Grue_, was a woman in her mid-thirties, with distinctive sharp features, but a Hispanic flair that didn't make her look unattractive at all. On the contrary, Christine believed that this was the perfect Carmen. Unfortunately, that role was reserved for mezzos, not sopranos, unless they had a good lower register.

Once Carlotta spotted the camera Meg had and Christine politely asked her if they could ask her a few questions about the recent production and her plans for the future, she flashed them a brilliant smile and at once became far nicer than she usually was and invited them to her dressing room. Christine was aware of the fact that in order to get to the information she really needed from the woman, she would have to do a bit of sweet-talking first.

The dressing room was lavish and pompous, filled with flowers from admirers, photos of the diva herself in her famous roles and perfumes, make-up, clothes… clearly, Carlotta was a prima donna even when she wasn't performing.

"My favorite role? It is so difficult to choose…" she said with an accented voice once they got past the pleasantries and Christine began asking her things. "I am a spinto soprano – pushed in Italian, meaning that my voice is mostly lyrical, but I can finish arias with dramatic tones. It is the middle-path, the good thing is that I can mostly pick my roles even from the dramatic and lyric soprano areas. I am working on my voice so that I will, one day, be able to pick even coloratura roles for myself."

It couldn't be clearer that the diva enjoyed talking about her own voice and talent very much. Christine was as patient as she could be, but Meg was growing irritated. As far as she was concerned, the woman could have answered the question with two words, one, if the character had only one name.

"I would say either Tosca or Rusalka, but both are wonderful." Christine was completely unsurprised that Carlotta chose the roles that were title characters of operas. She simply nodded with a smile and checked if her audio recorder was still on. She had loads of tape ready for today, but doubted it would be enough if Carlotta continued like this.

"I've seen – and heard - you in the current production, _La Grue_, already, and you have my congratulations for such a triumph." Carlotta smiled brilliantly, but vainly. "_La vendetta del cielo_ is to be the next production, but I heard there have been some problems with it thus far. Surely the management has offered you a part – why do you think Mr. Erik has a problem with the soloists that have been chosen?"

Carlotta frowned. "We have experienced some unfortunate artistic differences throughout the rehearsals of _La Grue, _but I tell the managers time and time again: it is the singer who is on stage, who the audience pays attention to. My interpretation of Miyoko is the way I see the character, the way I believe it _should_ be sung. Can they find a soprano that will manage to study the part in my stead with the same brilliance without having to change the date of the premiere? No! And it is the job of the conductor to ensure that we are all on-key – though in my case, that is just a formality – not of the composer." She shrugged gracefully.

"So you believe him to be much too demanding?" Christine asked carefully.

"I respect that he has a vision of how his work is to be performed, but visions are one thing and reality is another." The diva said sternly. "And anyway, this collaboration through a third person is rather tiring. If he were to come here and hear me sing live, I am quite certain his doubts of my talent would vanish."

Meg rolled her eyes behind Carlotta's back. "My last question for you, Ms. Giudicelli – we've taken quite enough of your time already – supposing a part would be written for your voice specifically, what would that part be?"

"The leading lady, of course." Carlotta said with a silvery little laugh, her mood lightening. "But the part of Venus in _La vendetta del cielo_ appeals to me. I think that would be a fine role for my voice."

Christine nodded and turned off her audio recorder. "I do thank you for your time, Ms. Giudicelli. Meg?" The photographer seemed to wake up. "A photo, if you could?" Carlotta struck a semi-dramatic pose as Meg took her picture, thanked them both and politely opened the door for them.

Once outside, Christine sighed in relief. "The worst is behind us." she said quietly, "At least we have what we wanted – her opinion."

Meg frowned. "Self-centered as it was. I'm still not sure if it was worth it. I nearly died of boredom. She sure is a stuck up little…"

Christine hissed a "Pst!" at Meg before she could finish, because some stagehands passed them a few seconds later. She shook her head with a sigh. When would Meg learn to be tactful and discreet, she had no idea. The brunette, for her part, simply shrugged innocently and played a bit with her camera. She had this nagging need to mutilate the photo of Carlotta, but quickly remembered that if she would damage the film, she would damage the rest of her precious photos as well.

They encountered a few ballet girls scurrying of to practice and then the second manager, Mr. Richard. He also greeted them quite enthusiastically and invited them both to come see the rehearsal later on, so that they might get a better glimpse of the opera house and how everything worked. Christine politely declined, for the time being.

They spent the rest of the two hours exploring the opera house, just to allow Meg to take as many pictures as she wanted, because Christine had a nagging suspicion that Meg would grow bored of this eventually and she would have to return on her own. Strengthened by a little coffee at midday, they sat down to relax their feet for a moment.

"I never actually understood why you stopped singing, Chris." Meg remarked suddenly as she drank a soda. "I mean, I know what you said about your dad and everything, but still, you have talent and art is a nice hobby."

Christine took a sip of her coffee. She _knew_ she shouldn't have sung a note in front of Meg! She had been carefully avoiding it for so long… "You can't start singing at 26 when you've got a full-time job that requires all of your focus. Besides, I have Mrs. V. to take care of and stuff…" she trailed off.

"Uh-huh. And this ´stuff´ is much more important than anything that you do well? Look, you know how long Ma kept telling me that I shouldn't start with ballet because it'll be useless on the long run?" Meg noted, "Well, I was a really clumsy dancer at first, but it turned out to be fun!"

"I don't like singing that much, Meg."

The brunette rolled her eyes. "Don't give me that crap, girl. Mrs. V. has other confidantes, you know?"

Christine gasped with astonishment. "So that's what you've been doing in the kitchen! Cooking dinner, yeah right!"

"Just because you're so pure and unsophisticated doesn't mean everyone is." Meg said with a small shrug and drank the rest of her soda. "Mrs. V. isn't the little angel she pretends to be around you, the lady has got quite a mischievous streak that surfaces occasionally. Next thing you know, she might be like Granny from Hoodwinked!" she laughed, "Triple G! Mrs. V. can be Triple V!"

Christine rolled her eyes. Another animated movie from Pixar or God knew what other company. "I won't even ask." she said seriously, "Moving swiftly on, I think we should wrap up for today in half an hour, no more interviews for today. I think we've had our fill of that for today, both of us."

Meg made a face. "Touché, Chris, touché." After they finished their drinks, they made their way to the exit of the building together, Christine still a little nauseous as she imagined again that she had been singing in so large an auditorium.

If it had been full, she would have fainted for certain, she thought.

X X X

Less than an hour later, Erik knew about everything he wanted to know about Miss Christine Daaé. He hadn't had enough patience to follow her throughout her conversation with Carlotta, but her voice, pretty even when she simply spoke, was easy enough to follow. The more he listened to it, the more he could see just how far she could go. It was a lyrical voice, without question, and it could do coloratura, he discovered with delight as she shrieked a bit when Meg poked her in the ribs unexpectedly at one point.

_The little Megaera might prove very useful_, he thought as the brunette's plain but penetrating voice asked some questions for him. She truly seemed to be like the Furia whose name he had dubbed her with. Christine's voice answered with a note of weariness, rather like a parent answering an eager toddler. _Megaera and Euterpe. _

He hadn't even seen her yet and didn't wish to, for the time being. To him, of all people, her face mattered least, but if she was to be a diva, she needed to look at least a bit pleasing to the eye. But if she was half as pretty as her voice was, then he was certain that everyone would be blown away.

He returned home – he had composed astonishingly little, compared to his standards, but strangely, he didn't care. He simply imagined her voice singing this or that aria, shining in every role. And then he saw her singing his music and realized that hers was the voice that would do it justice, the only soprano voice that got astonishingly close to perfection in his eyes – and ears – even in its untrained state.

She wasn't a singer, however, but a journalist, since she had been accompanied by a photographer. That presented a slight problem – every journalist on the continent would soon be trying to dig up anything about him. This girl didn't seem to be a vicious careerist, but he knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving.

He decided to use the simplest and most effective method of finding out anything at all about her – turning on his computer and typing her name into the Google search engine. Most people would be unable to type it in correctly, but he had learned and heard enough foreign languages to know how to spell foreign names. Besides, being French, he knew that spelling could get very tricky at times when you didn't know what the correct form of the vowels and at times even consonants was. Almost immediately, several links appeared, with her name written in bold.

_The latest production of the Royal Opera House, La Grue, has triumphed at Covent Garden last Friday, there can be no question of that. Many believed it was a true gamble, myself among these doubters, to premiere a new opera, because people usually come to the opera to listen to the famed classics, such as Verdi, Puccini or Wagner, depending on personal tastes. Now I am struggling with words, not because I don't wish to hurt anyone's feelings, but to say that if you still doubt new "classical" music, this will change your mind. _

_The mysterious composer known to his audiences only as Erik has repeated the triumph from Paris here, in London, without question. The opera based on an old Japanese fairytale might have seemed to have a slightly narrow plot at first, but the music that accompanied the story changed my opinion of that almost at once. With new composers, you see the tendency to "steal" part of a tune from an old composition and then modify it to suit their needs. But I doubt even an expert on classical music would be able to find any kind of copying in the score. _

_As for the scene and costumes, both were very simplistic, but they weren't meant to dazzle or to inspire awe – I should add that the music alone manages that, so there is no need for it – but to show that the peasants in Japan lived in poverty just as much as those in Europe. The difficult parts of the design, the fallen crane and its flight, have been handled with brilliant theatre tricks that made you wonder whether it's real magic. _

_The soloists are quite certainly known to all of the opera fans out there – Signora Carlotta Giudicelli and Signor Ubaldo Piangi, both long-term stars of the stage, having debuted in Madama Butterfly (1998, La Scala) and Idomeneo (1996, Wiener Staatsoper). Staring as Miyoko and Yohei, their performance was truly memorable…_

Erik stopped reading for a moment. The girl didn't go to the opera often if she thought those two gave a memorable performance… but when he thought more about it, he inwardly smiled. Carefully veiled criticism, perhaps – memorable as the worse abomination ever heard in the history of operatic singing, true.

…_but Signora Giudicelli is at times grander than her role would perhaps require, overshadowing Signor Piangi as a presence on the stage._

_The ballet interlude takes away some of the drama, but it's sufficiently quick not to draw attention away from the plot. The choruses of villagers and merchants might remind one of _Lakmé_, though merely due to the similar setting. The musical motives are light and pleasant at times, sad at others. The score has clearly been written for an orchestra without any kind of flaws and the ability to quickly adapt to sudden tempo changes. Overall, the orchestra at Covent Garden does a pleasing job, but at times the solos don't have the same agility and "punch" as the crescendos of the full orchestra do._

_The production runs surprisingly smoothly and in case there are any flaws in it, the entire spectacle prevents one from seeing it. A relaxing and notable production, recommended for every music-loving audience._

The article was followed by a few promo shots that had been taken during the rehearsals and sold to the press after the opening night.

Erik closed the browser window. He knew enough of psychology to be able to tell that those lines had been written by a person genuinely interested in music and not the people around it. The timid personality hidden beneath a façade of professionalism would be a slight problem, but then again, she would need to be able to obey to be able to learn.

To learn! How quickly the thoughts of how he could shape that voice of hers came! Under any other circumstances, he would have immediately approached her and offered her vocal lessons, even free lessons, should she wish them, because he would be the one receiving a great payment for his efforts. But it was impossible to even approach her – teaching her was beyond the boundaries of the impossible, even. Eventually, her questions would start and he would refuse to answer them. It would be a risk to even speak to her, a very difficult gamble.

But then he remembered her voice again and what a triumph it would be, to have it sing in his operas…

Erik stood up abruptly. He couldn't think about the voice anymore, or he would go mad. But inwardly, he knew he had decided that such a discovery couldn't be forgotten that easily. He quickly escaped into the world of music by playing something _furioso_ on the piano, the instrument closest to him. The inability to make a logical decision when he was influenced by the voice he still heard resonating in his head made him angry and this was the perfect way to express his frustration.

She would return, he had heard that much. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would hear her again and he would decide. He had to hear her voice again in order to be certain it was worth the gamble. If it would be, he swore that she would be the prima donna even if he would have to hound her every day. She would agree to take the lessons – even if her interest in his music hadn't been clear, there was still the matter of his voice and how it affected people, for God knew what reasons. No, her cooperation was not the problem.

The problem were her questions. Should he show himself to her or simply use his voice? The latter seemed more appealing, but he wasn't certain whether a modern woman would allow her naivety to take over and listen to a disembodied voice, let alone let it teach her. How could he be close enough to teach her yet far enough so that she wouldn't grow curious?

From playing, he proceeded to composing, and within fifteen minutes, he had a light, comical aria for her voice ready, an aria he knew he would use in his next opera. He also named the character Clarissa, decided that the libretto of the opera was going to be in Italian. Sighing when he saw that it worked and he had progressed with the new opera, he smiled… but only inwardly.

_Euterpe indeed._


	9. Chapter 9

I hope you like this, because it was tough to write. And I mean really tough.

X X X

**Chapter 9**

X X X X

Raoul called her later that evening, just to check how her day had been. She smiled as she answered his questions and concerns with patience, albeit a bit tired – her day had been very long. After leaving the Royal Opera House, she and Meg stopped by at work and fixed a timetable for their researches, because they really had to show up at least once a day to inform Lefévre of their progress, if only in passing. Christine had already organized the material she had gathered thus far. She trusted Meg when it came to the photos.

With a tinge of regret in her voice, she rejected his offer to meet up the next day, because of her work. He had been joyful when she had told him of her promotion, but apparently, he hadn't thought of the fact that this might take more of her time than her previous jobs. Her sincere devotion to this silenced his doubts about her task, of which she had told him very little. While she liked Raoul, Christine knew that if she would tell him where she was spending time, she would never have a moment of peace to work – sometimes, she needed solitude. Work required it, most often.

Raoul, who was, as he had informed her during their last walk in the Royal Botanic Gardens, was learning about the more practical aspects of leading a successful business – Philip was a man of modern times and thus knew that a title wasn't enough to make one successful or happy, so he had started a family business in the financial area years ago. Raoul, apparently, was to become his successor one day as head of the management, so he had to learn everything that it implied, even though Philip showed few signs of wanting to retire even once he would reach the required age. The Chagny family was a very influential one and a busy one, Christine had deduced easily, if they had time for all of their activities: running a business, supporting the arts, the formal duties of aristocrats…

She got up early the next day, ready for another go at the interviews, but she decided to come to the opera house a few hours later and stay a bit longer to compensate that, just to see how the normal average-ordinary day at one of the most famous opera houses in the world looked like. This time, she intended to go for the second grand star, Signor Piangi, who would, hopefully, have a smaller ego than his female counterpart. On the stage, it had seemed that way – but anyone would seem irrelevant compared to Carlotta, who tried to get as much attention from the audience as possible, succeeding admirably.

On her way to Covent Garden, however, her phone rang and a slightly irritated sounding Meg greeted her. "Chris, you might have to do without me today, Lef called he needs someone to go to some kind of law company, apparently, there's gonna be a pretty tough trial and we need someone there and, well, he figured out that yours truly needs more work than she already has. Great, huh?" she grumbled.

"That's too bad, Megster." Christine said sympathetically, "But don't worry, I'll manage just fine. I was going to go after the Piangi guy today; hopefully he won't need photos to cooperate. If anything, we'll come a second time."

"Yeah, then he'll think we're really interested in his opinion… or him. Just be careful not to make him think we're fans. Unless he's hot, of course." Meg said hopefully.

"Small, plump, Italian accent, high-pitched voice."

"Right-o." came the disappointed reply, "Minus the accent, it sounds like a no-go to me. You can keep him." Christine made a little sound that indicated that while she had nothing against Italians or tenors, this guy certainly wasn't her type, even in a million years. "Oh, right, you've got Mr. I'm Young, Handsome and Rich. Next time Sorelli dates a Count and he has a younger brother who's single, I'm not taking you with me."

"I'll survive that." Christine said dryly. Then, a little friendlier, she added: "It will be fine, just relax and play it cool."

"You're kidding. Even Ma wouldn't be cool in this situation! Anyway, g2g, no time to lose. Good luck with any fat ladies in horned helmets that scream out things in weird languages you encounter!" And Meg hung up, leaving Christine remembering all the parodies of Wagnerian operas she had ever seen. Yes, that was the stereotype – that was how people viewed opera. Fat Valkyries that screamed things no one understood. Fortunately, she knew better. Unfortunately, some people actually believed that.

Covent Garden hadn't changed one bit – nor did she expect to change it in one day. Most of the people she met remembered her from the previous day, so she encountered no trouble. With a little help from a stagehand, she located Signor Piangi´s dressing room, put on the mask of a professional and knocked confidently. She was ready to do her job again.

X X X

"Radamés and Alfredo – _Aida_ and _La Traviata_, surely you have heard of those? Ah, bene." Piangi smiled when Christine nodded. "Those are my special favorites. _Celeste Aida _always brings people to tears. Romantic operas are wonderful."

They were in the middle of the questioning, sitting in the dressing room. Piangi had turned out to be quite a normal man, a bit squeamish and a tad proud about his voice, but still, generally, quite normal. He had already answered most of her questions, including his feelings about _La Grue_, his part – Yohei and what inspired him to start a career in the opera business.

"Your thoughts about the… modern way of collaboration which this production works with?"

"Ah, Signor Erik's eccentric terms, you mean?" Piangi shrugged, "All artists are entitled to a few whims, even if his are a little strange. I admit, it is unusual to work like this and even stranger that he seems to know and see far more than his view… I mean sight… s…s…"

"Surveillance?" Christine helped him.

"Yes, that! Excuse me, my English, regrettably, isn't as good as I hope it will be, in time. I usually work in countries that speak Spanish, Italian or French – the languages of the opera. But, as you have said, his surveillance seems a bit limiting. But he sees every mistake, every detail. Frightening… but very effective as well."

Christine nodded. "I see. I believe that is all I needed to know, Signor, thank you. Unless, of course, you wish to share the roles you still seek to study. Your repertoire is wide, but nevertheless, do you have any part you wish to sing?"

Piangi thought for a moment before answering. "Gérald, in _Lakmé._ Yes, that would be nice. You see, it is an opera that isn't played too often, because the lead role is very difficult – I have seen the score. Most sopranos refuse to sing it or don't have the voice for it, it is too demanding. But I would like to sing Gérald one day, no matter how good or bad the rest of the cast would be."

Like the day before, Christine thanked him politely for his time and asked him if she might return with a photographer to take his picture for the article later on. Piangi agreed and thus her work had ended. She left and this time, decided to accept the offer given by Richard yesterday and go see the rehearsal. Then, just for a moment she hesitated on the second floor when she left the ladies´. She had intended to go to the nearest box and watch the rehearsal from there… but she remembered the opening night of _La Grue_ and the box on the grand tier.

She hesitated, biting her lip. An inner battle went on in her – something told her not to go to the box, she felt as if she had no right to go to the private seat of the man she had, in her mind, nicknamed the Angel of Music. Then again, the journalist in her tugged at her and almost pulled her towards the forbidden box, telling her that being in a place where he had certainly been would perhaps enlighten her in some way.

Her curiosity won over her timidity. She descended to the first floor and located the box so close to the one belonging to the royal family.

Outwardly, the box was no different from any other. The same furnishings, same walls, same lights… almost the same view. When Christine entered, she noticed the wonderful angle from which she could view the stage. The box was almost ideally positioned; she could see the set from a two-third profile. That meant she had a view of the orchestra pit, the stage and the set behind the actors. She saw that below, on the stage, the set was being readied. In the shadowy box, no one could see her; no one paid her any attention. No one ever knew she was there.

It was simply a matter of not being seen entering and leaving.

Christine understood the cleverness of the whole idea. From here, Erik could watch his productions, the rehearsals; he could easily oversee the whole process. She sat down in the best seat, a bit awkwardly. She had the distinct feeling that she was trespassing upon holy ground. It was like a servant attempting to sit upon a king's throne in the king's absence. She sat down after a few awkward seconds and relaxed somewhat. The whole auditorium was laid bare in front of her and she had a great view of the rehearsals for the operetta _The Merry Widow_. She didn't recognize any of the cast, but she got the distinct feeling that this production would have a more peaceful rehearsal than anything by Erik.

It was something past five p.m. when the rehearsal ended. Christine remained sitting in the box, watching as the cast members and the crew returned everything to its original position and, one by one, left. Clearly, no one had noticed her. However, this was one thing she had no intention of mentioning to anyone – while she was keen to find out more about this Erik, she didn't want to ruin his privacy, which was a bit of a strange thing for a journalist. However, she wasn't one of those who dug out the biggest dirt on people just to get a higher price for their article.

She stuck around, just enjoying the atmosphere. Meg appreciated it in her own way, but Christine thought she had her own way of seeing things when it came to music. This was going to be the biggest article of her career. She would do this in the memory of her father – she had stood on the stage and sang, so that dream of his had been fulfilled. This would be her final goodbye to music.

Once more, she returned to the stage, to see the "view" once more. She got almost as scared as previously, but decided to be brave, unwilling to admit to herself that it scared her. It didn't work. Both fortunately and sadly, what attracted her attention was a fallen paper on the floor. Upon picking it up, she saw that it was some sheet music that probably got lost in all the chaos. Well, if there was anything Christine disliked, it was having to search for lost things, and thus she decided to give it to the first chorus girl she would encounter to return to its correct place. She went backstage, but predictably encountered no one. Now a bit frustrated, she understood the wisdom in the words that if one wants to do something correctly, one should do it themselves.

Pointedly avoiding Carlotta's dressing room, just in case, she descended down yet another staircase, past the ballet training rooms and searched for just about any kind of music storage room, but all she encountered were dressing rooms. She stopped for a moment, looking around. The closest door was labeled "Male Costume Storage". She was probably in the wrong part of the complex. With a quiet sigh, she turned on her heel to return the way she came in. in that moment, when resignation overcame frustration, her senses seemed to open for the first time to the outside world and she heard a sound… very distant, it seemed, but it was there.

Christine froze and strained her ears a bit, searching for the source of it. The more she listened, the more she realized that it wasn't a random set of notes, but a melody. Her feet automatically began moving. The clearer the sound became, the more obvious it became that it was the sound of a piano, but handled with such effortlessness that she might have been listening to a professional recording. And yet it was very subtle… and alluring. The sound almost seemed to draw her. Before Christine knew it, she was almost racing down the corridors, more than willing to find the source of the melody.

She finally found out that the sounds were coming out of a storage room of the orchestra's instruments – the spare ones and the specific ones, usually not used in operas but needed for some elaborate or unorthodox melodies, a good example being a Glockenspiel and, of course, the piano. The piano was used only occasionally and wasn't part of the standard orchestra... perhaps it was a spinet, Christine mused quietly as she stood in front the door. She froze there. Should she enter? Would the melody stop? She didn't want it to stop, but she was slightly afraid that there was some other exit from the room and she wouldn't even know when the concert would be over for her.

Quietly, she grasped the handle of the door – it was unlocked. The door was slightly ajar, almost purposely. It made only a little sound when she opened it. The room was in total darkness – not even the slightest light was lit. The dimly lit corridors were sunlit compared to this. The piano stopped playing once she took a step into the room. She couldn't see a thing and was astonished that the player could play so well in the dark, but she raised her hand in a defensive gesture.

"No…!" she said, slightly alarmed, "Please, don't stop on my account. I simply… I heard you playing and I… well, I've never heard anyone play quite like this before. Please, continue." There was no answer from the darkness. The strange thing was, she had never had a problem finding words before.

A new melody, slightly slower than the first one, began. Christine chanced a few steps into the darkness. She was a bit worried about not seeing anything, but she hoped she would find a switch eventually. Three steps and a voice that seemed to sound right from her side said with authority: "Please come no closer, mademoiselle."

Christine jumped slightly, both because of the sudden illusion and because of the unworldly voice that reached her. She almost stood there like a dummy, her face resembling that of a fish. She stopped, however, staring into the darkness. "Who are you, sir?"

There was a brief silence. "As you are the one trespassing upon a private performance, I feel I have the right to pose that question first." The voice now seemed to resonate from the completely other direction, but it didn't catch her off-guard like the first sentence had.

"My name is Christine Daaé, I'm a journalist from the _Deacon_." she said calmly, "I'm sorry if I disturbed you, I just heard you play and…" she shook her head, "You're not from the orchestra, are you? None of them plays quite like you do."

"A piano isn't an instrument of an opera orchestra." The voice noted.

"Yes, but if the Royal Opera House had so brilliant a pianist, the world would know it." Christine retorted, "I would know. I've listened to the orchestra and seen a rehearsal."

"And saw the opera from the prima donna´s view." the voice said softly, continuing with mild amusement, "But I knew you're not a singer. If the Royal Opera House had a soprano with such potential, the world would know it. I would know."

Christine's jaw fell slightly. She was in a state of shock. Who was this? How come he knew, no one had been there… no one… no one had been at the operetta rehearsal… no one sitting in box 65… and no one had ever called her mademoiselle before. She closed her mouth and swallowed.

"You… you're Erik, aren't you?" she asked, her voice shaking.

The pause he made to watch her tension was truly unfair of him. The answer, after all, was simple. But he didn't answer. Instead, he played the aria she had sung along with the vocal line. One would have to have at least three hands to manage that and he pulled it off easily.

Christine could only stare. She was more than certain that it was him, even if he didn't bother answering her question. She didn't know where to look, but the height of his musicianship astonished her completely. She had never dreamed that she would even see the famous mysterious composer live, let alone meet him, speak with him… and now, he was playing for her… perhaps mocking her. He stopped before the final high note, just as she had.

No further proof was necessary. "Sir," she quickly said, remembering she had a voice, "it would be my great honor if you would please answer a few questions – nothing too personal, simply about your music. The people…"

"…are of no interest to me." he finished, "And if you were of no interest to me, be certain that we wouldn't be talking here right now."

Christine frowned. "I'm of interest to you? Why? Because of the article I wrote?"

"There are plenty of people who write articles about me nowadays, I'm certain." His voice noted dismissively, "But very, very few have a singing voice that I would like. Two days ago, I believed there was none." He paused, leaving Christine to stare into the darkness. The voice still came from all sides, almost drowning her, and she had no idea where the piano was or where he himself was.

"What are you talking about?" she asked quietly, her embarrassment that a renowned and talented composer had heard her amateur singing forgotten for a moment.

"Must I repeat it or should I flatter you to make you understand?" he sounded a bit annoyed, "I heard that the English like pleasantries and that flattery helps with young women. Perhaps I should try it someday."

"I'm not English." Christine said, a bit defensively.

"I suppose now, with a name such as yours." He didn't feel the slightest need to apologize, it seemed. "I like your voice, mademoiselle, and that is an honor I haven't bestowed even upon some world-famous singers. You have raw talent in your throat and some basic training in your memory." He paid no heed to her utter astonishment, if he saw it. "And so I have a proposition for you."

"Y-yes?" she stuttered, unable to say more.

"A simple thing: you shall get your answers, at least some of them. In exchange, I want your voice. I want to see how far you can go and how I can shape your potential. Yes, potential." he said in slightly warmer tones, "You have it and letting it go to waste is blasphemous in the eyes of a musician."

Christine still didn't fully understand. "You want… to train my voice? Classically train it? But what would you gain…"

"All in due time." he interrupted her, "A man such as I is allowed to be a little cryptic, just for practice." Unwillingly, Christine laughed a bit, but stopped at once, trying to be polite. "You need not be tense in my presence, mademoiselle. A strong voice requires a relaxed body. Come here tomorrow, around the same time."

"You will be here?" she asked hopefully, forgetting that she hadn't even agreed to this yet and he was already ordering her around. But refusing this offer was out of the question – it was a bargain for which anyone in her place would kill. "Will I be allowed to ask you some questions?"

"I am always here. And yes, I think I could answer something. Don't get your hopes up, however. The aria you sang is too difficult for your voice… for the time being. I have brought you an arietta from the Sammelband "Arie di Parma del 1688". Demanding when it comes to breathing, but not range. It isn't easy, however – a test, if you will. You will find it on the piano."

"Where?" Christine asked, "It's completely dark here, I don't even know where you are!

"It's better that way." he noted quietly, "I'll turn on the lights for you when I'm gone."

"Wait… I'm not allowed to see you?" Christine asked, "But why?"

There was a strange silence that made her wonder if he had left without telling her. "That is the first of the questions which I can't answer. A demain, mademoiselle Daaé."

Christine wanted to say something, but her throat felt choked. No sounds came, but she had the distinct feeling that he was gone. In less than a minute, a soft light sprang to life above her and she saw, about ten meters away, a grand black acoustic piano used for concertos. It showed no signs that it had been played moments previously… but there were several neatly lined up papers lying on it.

She put the paper she had been holding on the piano and took the sheet music that had been prepared for her – she still wasn't convinced that all this was either a prank or a dream. This was tangible proof, however. Well, she would find out tomorrow, she decided. She already had about a zillion questions to ask him: why wasn't he performing worldwide, live?

Why wasn't she allowed to see him?

How come his voice made her tremble?

She would have to scratch that last one.


	10. Chapter 10

In short: yay for long updates!

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**Chapter 10**

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Erik didn't sleep that night. That, to be frank, was nothing unusual – insomnia wasn't a stranger to him. However, this night, he played for hours, composing, simply going through his old scores and rewriting parts of what he hadn't yet released. He had feared that it would be difficult to speak with her, but it had been easy to get her where he wanted her. His music never failed to attract, his voice never failed to enchant. She had come to him on her own accord! Until her very last question, things were very easy. But he had known that the question must come, no matter how he wished that it wouldn't… no matter, he decided. He was the one with the power now, the one setting the rules of this little game.

He didn't even have to hear her sing again to decide – the moment she spoke was the moment he had decided. He had to offer something in return, so he had offered a few answers, but reminded her that he wasn't going to answer everything. And she agreed, because truly, he had given her an offer a journalist couldn't refuse. If she would live up to his expectations, she wouldn't have to be a journalist for much long, however. If she had half of the potential he thought she did, the musical world would be at her feet before long. And with her voice, who knows what he might achieve? Her voice was like a perfectly pitched instrument that simply required a skilled player. And thus far, he had managed to master any instrument he had laid his hands on. True, he hadn't trained anyone vocally yet, but he possessed excellent hearing and could sense what was wrong when it came to singers.

The arietta he had given her was a little joke, in a way – it was an anonymous piece from the bel canto archives. Just like the little déjà vu he had experienced when he saw that she had been the girl who had spotted him leaving his box after the premiere. She was of medium height, pale-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her appearance was thoroughly Nordic, but he mused that it would be kind of exotic, compared to the Italian divas of the stage.

Christine had arrived home thoroughly bewildered. Her heartbeat was rapid and she made herself some tea. Not coffee, that would only make things worse. Some warm tea, preferably Earl Grey with lemon and she sat down at the TV to watch the evening news. She was only half-listening to anything the reporters said, however. It seemed unimportant, so she turned it off. She kept trying to avoid studying the sheet music she had received, but in the end, she couldn't help herself. She read through the lyrics of the arietta – predictably, it was in Italian.

_Amor, fammi goder!  
Fammi baciar quell labbro  
Asperso di cinabro  
Che serve d'arci a tem bendati aricier!_

She only understood "amor" "baciar" and "che serve", but it didn't make that much sense to her yet – the percentage of words she had heard before was low in this song. It seemed to be a love ballad, however, which didn't surprise her – most Italian songs dealt with that. The date signified that it was from the year 1688. The composer was anonymous. She shook her head with a frustrated sigh. This helplessness and knowing nothing was irritating her slightly. Not that she could do anything about it, though… only come back the next day, as Erik had asked her. Who wouldn't? Besides the fact that this was the breakthrough in her career that could very well get her even higher up the food chain, she found she had a personal interest in the man. Only her father had ever played that brilliantly, as far as she remembered. The display of musicianship made her wonder if Erik could also play the violin.

She looked at the sheet music again and then realized that while there were two treble clefs marked there to signify the vocal line and the right hand of the pianist, there were also two bass clefs there. One was united with the second treble clef, making it clear that this was the score for the piano. The last bass clef, however, had three words written above it. _Allegretto. Violoncello. Leggiero. _Christine reread the second word, just to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. A cello? The arietta required two instruments at the same time! There was no way anyone could…

Her thoughts stopped. She now knew better than to say "no way" when it came to music and Erik.

Rather than thinking of him further, she decided to call first Mrs. Valerius, then Meg and then Raoul, who seemed to have called her about an hour ago, when her phone had been turned off. But she really needed to speak with Mrs. Valerius first. The old lady picked up the phone after several rings and sounded slightly tired.

"Good evening, Mrs. V., it's Christine." Christine quickly said, "I'm sorry that I didn't call sooner, but I was… delayed."

"Ah, Christine, you can be open with an old woman – I'm not old enough yet not to understand that a fine young man can detain a girl for quite some time." Mrs. Valerius said, "How was your day?"

"Busy." Christine said, "But that's my line. How was yours?"

"Oh, I was at the doctor's. It turns out that no matter how fast you are, old age eventually catches up with you. Now, don't be scared, child." Mrs. Valerius said when she heard the little gasp Christine let out. "I'm quite alright, I just got my usual medications, no need to worry just yet. You save those worries for a time when they are really needed. I won't be going to our Lord just yet. He's not like the men you meet – he has all the time in the world, he can wait."

Christine gave a shaky laugh. "For a moment there, I was frightened. So nothing's wrong?"

"Everything's fine, dear. But you sound a bit… unnerved. Or excited? It's hard for old ears to detect, you know, especially over the phone. Either way, tell me about it. You work entirely too hard. The stress, the pressure… I keep telling you, if you don't want to be a nervous wreck at forty, don't push yourself to your limits now."

Christine hesitated briefly. Should she tell Mrs. Valerius about what she had witnessed today? She guessed that Erik wouldn't wish it. She would have to be discreet. "I think…I think I might have met the Angel of Music today, Mrs. V." she said, choosing words well, "I couldn't believe it at first… but I think it truly was the Angel of Music."

Mrs. Valerius gave a joyful but quiet sound. "You see, Christine? Your father never lied, he kept his promise as he said. I'm very happy for you, very happy indeed. I'll thank your father, the Lord and your angel in my prayers tonight."

Mrs. Valerius was simply too religious to even consider the fact that Christine's words were more of a metaphor than anything else. Nevertheless, Christine considered them truthful enough to say them without feeling she had betrayed Erik or lied to Mrs. Valerius.

The call with Meg was pretty much about enduring the brunette's ramble about how horrible her day had been and saying a few sympathetic things.

"But I'm ready to come with you tomorrow, if you need me, Chris." Meg concluded far more cheerfully, clearly happy that she wouldn't get to do more artistic work rather than boring stuff.

Christine didn't share this enthusiasm, however. "No, Megster, that's fine, I'll manage alone. I think we've got all the photos we need, anyway, the interior of the opera house is what matters, plus a few photos from the opera – that's all."

There was a brief silence. "I get it, Miss Workaholic. Afraid I'll catch you and Raoul in the middle of a secret date?" Christine made a shocked sound. "Oh, more? Better and better!" Meg said slyly, "Alright, alright, I won't turn up, but you'll have to give me all the juicy details later on. And, to buy my silence, you're paying when we go to the movies this week. See you then!" And she hung up, leaving Christine to stare at the telephone.

Just as she took several deep breaths and decided that to calm herself, she should call someone who she would trust not to be this sneaky with her – Raoul – her phone beeped to signify that a message had arrived. _Speak of the devil…_ she thought with a smile as she recognized the phone number. It was from Raoul.

_Hey Little Lotte! You seem to be very preoccupied today, hopefully I'm not interrupting something. Anyway, what would you say if I said that I'd love to go ice skating with you tomorrow at, say six pm? I know it's spring, but the benefit of being a hockey fanatic and a Vicomte is that you can go skating whenever you want. Hopefully you haven't forgotten how to skate! If you have, that means I'll have to teach you again. I'm patiently waiting for your answer. Raoul_

Christine smiled slightly. Raoul was right – she had forgotten how to ice skate. Years ago, back in Sweden, he had taught her how to do it, but she hadn't ice skated once since then. There never was the will or the time. Her smile froze briefly when she realized that she could never make it in time from the opera house to wherever Raoul decided they would go. She bit her lip. Vocal lesson and perhaps an answer to her persistent questions or something that could easily be classified as a date with a really nice guy?

Erik or Raoul?

The answer was easy, of course. She hated turning down Raoul when she really wanted to go skating with him, but she knew that if she wouldn't turn up tomorrow, Erik could vanish entirely. From what she had seen of him, he wasn't a person eager to compromise. His terms, his rules. If she wouldn't show up, who knew if he would bother coming again? Though she wasn't happy to admit it, one date with Raoul simply wasn't worth as much as the chance to spend an hour or more in the presence of a Mozart of the 21st century. With a tinge of regret, she typed the reply.

_Hi Raoul. Sorry, busy day, I'm a workaholic, I'm afraid. About the ice skating – you're right, I could use a lesson in that. But my timetable is full for tomorrow, I've got a meeting with a very important person. But I'm sure we can go another day. Maybe it'll have to wait till the weekend, however – my week might turn out rather crazy. I hope you're not too angry with me. Christine_

Two minutes later – way too quickly, which startled her – the reply came. He must have truly been staring at the phone ever since sending the first message, Christine thought, and the mental image made her laugh a bit.

_After such a long wait, a week isn't enough to sway my devotion, L.L. I'll call you tomorrow, if you don't mind. Sweet dreams!_

But Christine barely slept that night and was distracted for most of the next day. Ever since she entered the Royal Opera House, she had a slightly paranoid feeling that she was being watched. More than ever, she felt that she wasn't alone, even as she had a pleasant – and lengthy – chat with the conductor about _La Grue_ and opera in general. Once another scheduled rehearsal began at one p.m., she found herself slipping away from the auditorium and seeking out the instrument storage room where she had encountered Erik yesterday. She entered cautiously and blindly searched for the light switch on the nearest wall. She found it a minute later and turned the lights on. The room was as it had been tomorrow – a bit cramped, a bit small when all the instruments were there, dominated by the grand acoustic piano she had heard Erik play yesterday.

Soundlessly, she closed the door behind her. It wouldn't hurt just to look around, would it, she asked herself. After all, what was wrong with a bit of searching? The room was empty, showing little signs of use. A bit awkwardly, she sat down at the piano and took the three papers of sheet music out of her purse, lining them up. She had never played any instrument professionally, but she knew how to read notes and where the middle C was. It was hopeless to try playing with both hands, let alone to try and play the score for the piano, but she lowered her right hand to the keys, her thumb resting on the first tone of the vocal line and slowly, she began playing uneasily. She made some unnecessary pauses when her fingers lost the correct key, but she got through the first phrase, repeated it a bit faster and came to the first halt

Then the lights went out. Christine, who had never experienced a blackout, especially not one underground, where there was no other source of light, was genuinely startled. It was as if someone had placed black glasses right in front of her eyes. However, this didn't seem to be an electrical malfunction. It almost seemed like…

"Please don't tell me that you intended to spend the four hours you have to spare till the appointed time trying to learn to play the vocal line, Mademoiselle Daaé. I sincerely hope you intended to tackle the accompaniment as well, at least the piano."

Christine stood up abruptly and very elegantly tripped over the chair she had been sitting on, landing unceremoniously on her backside. She certainly hadn't been expecting this. Once again, Erik's voice seemed to sound right from her side, a trick she had yet to see through. But what really made her shiver was when she tried to get up and felt a hand – a man's hand – take hers and firmly but not fiercely raise her to her feet. Thoroughly shocked, she stared into the darkness, knowing that he stood right in front of her. His silhouette was difficult to make out, but what she saw at once were his eyes, studying her face. She had never seen such eyes, at least not on a human face. They were golden yellow, bright, almost shining like a cat's and a bit similarly shaped. Certainly, it was unusual and in a way, frightening, but it also seemed fascinating. Christine found herself staring.

The trance ended once he let go of her hand, very quickly, and turned away from her. "I'm sorry for falling – you simply startled me." she said shakily, trying to see where he was. No effect.

"Yes, I seem to have that effect on people." Erik noted dryly, "As we are both here early, perhaps we could begin. With the rehearsals upstairs, no one will notice us down here. I'll play the vocal line for you – your hand is untrained and shaky, you pay no heed to tempo and time signatures. This is how it should sound." Christine managed to locate the piano only thanks to hearing from where the notes sounded. Her teacher played the vocal line effortlessly, just as he had played the _Hannibal_ aria yesterday. "I doubt you know the lyrics yet. No matter - we'll go phrase by phrase."

"Shouldn't we turn on some light?" Christine asked, "Not all of us can read scores in total darkness, you know. I'm only human."

"There's no need for light." Erik said, slightly coolly. "If you were to be reading the score, you'd pay more attention to the lyrics than to creating a tone. You wouldn't stand straight, your head would be in the wrong position, and you'd grow tense when you wouldn't be able to read or pronounce a word. And when you're beginning with singing, it's much better to close your eyes. It makes it easier to get the tone between your eyes, into your head, where the head voice should be. We will start with a basic warm-up. I want to see which tone is the first to make you use your head voice. If you feel any tension in your throat, stop singing at once. Now, I want you to close your eyes and relax."

After an hour of scales, simple training phrases, staccato and slurs, and, of course, a lot of commands, suggestions and furious piano playing, Erik had decided that they could finally get to the arietta. He hadn't praised her or encouraged her, but Christine was truly astonished to hear a pure sound come out of her mouth after a few attempts and several suggestions. Erik had made the decision of not telling her that he was fully expecting that after a few months, soprano C would be easy for her, as she was without any doubt a _soprano acuto sfogato_ that would bring a new meaning to the term.

"I didn't know I could go that high." Christine confessed once the warm-up was over.

"You will be able to go higher, eventually. It's sufficient for us now. Now, I trust you've read through the lyrics. I don't suppose you speak Italian." Christine shook her head, but by the time she remembered that they were in the dark, he was speaking again. "I thought so. But it's not long, it shouldn't be a problem. I'll play it for you again."

"Could you sing it for me?" Christine asked, "I learn easily enough through sound, plus we'd save some time."

"Very well." came his reply after a brief silence and he sang the arietta, playing the vocal line at the same time. "The first phrase is "Amor, Amor, fammi goder, fammi goder" repeated once after a pause. Mezzo-forte, then piano pianissimo." He played the entire phrase once. "I'll play along with you. Take a deep breath and start."

"I wanted to ask you – a cello is needed for this particular arietta. I know you're brilliant with the piano and perhaps you play the cello as well, but how do you intend to play two instruments at the same time?"

"The same way you intend to question me as well as sing, mademoiselle. Focus on the latter for now and leave the accompaniment to me, s'il vous plaît. One, two…"

Christine took a deep breath and began on "three". She was stopped before she finished the first two notes and was asked to sing the syllable "va" instead of the words. Then she was allowed to repeat the phrase with the lyrics. The following hour and a half was one of the most agonizing Christine had experienced. Never had anyone been so strict with her, so demanding. She began to understand why Piangi had said that it was frightening, to be under Erik's personal surveillance. Her throat felt sore by the time Erik said that their lesson was over for the day.

"May I ask my question now, sir?" Christine asked after she had collected her purse and the sheet music, with Erik's aid.

She heard him sigh quietly. "That was the agreement, wasn't it? Very well, ask, but don't be certain that I will answer – I never said I would."

"Where do you get your inspiration? Your music sounds like nothing I've ever heard before."

"The world itself." he answered, "Notice how easily I write tragedies and now, when I wish to write an opera buffa, it takes me so long. One completed aria is all I have at the moment. Just sound and a very early draft of lyrics. One character – not even the plot is outlined yet. Real life is a fine inspiration for tragedy, not for comedy."

Christine nodded. "I see. Thank you for sharing that with me."

"You seem to know something of the tragedies of life." Erik remarked and she felt as if she were under a microscope when she saw his eyes fixed on her face, unblinking.

"Well… I suppose I do." she admitted, "I'm an orphan, you know – fortunately, I grew up with a guardian, a friend of my father. My father was a violinist, a very good one. When he died, I just… gave up music. It didn't seem right to sing without his violin accompanying me, I think. Do you play the violin, monsieur?" she asked suddenly, using the French title just as he used it when addressing her.

"Anything with strings is my passion – I play the violin, yes. If hearing it upsets you, I will choose songs that don't require violin accompaniment."

"It's quite alright." Christine shook her head, "I'm certain you excel with the violin as you do with the piano. Is there any instrument you don't play?"

"That's your third question today, mademoiselle." He warned her, but she could tell by his voice that he wasn't angry with her. Quite the contrary – he seemed surprised that she cared about answers to questions which would certainly have no place in any interview. "Well… I haven't had much practice with a Rakatak or some other traditional African instruments." Christine stared. "But in terms of classical music, I prefer string instruments to brass instruments, if that's the answer you seek."

_The modern Mozart,_ Christine thought. "When should I come again, monsieur?" she asked to cover up her disbelief.

"Tomorrow. Remember that you won't be allowed entrance into the opera house forever, even though you are writing an article about it. I imagine that within a week, we'll be forced to change strategy."

"And you will allow me to see you, then, or will I be entering another dark room with a piano?" Christine asked, smiling.

He sounded serious, however. "I'll consider both options. If you'd see me, you'd get far more answers than I wish to give."

"True, I would recognize you on the street, if I met you, and you wish to remain the mysterious stranger for the time being. I don't expect that you'd answer the obvious question: why would so talented a musician refuse to reveal himself to the world? So I won't ask it. But you must realize that eventually, you won't be able to keep your face a mystery."

There was a brief but heavy silence. "I assure you that as long as I am able to prevent it, _no one_ will see my face." He said it with a strange, fierce determination. "Rehearsal has ended a few minutes ago. You should go, Mademoiselle Daaé, before you're missed – you've lingered in my presence far too long."

"At what time should I be here?" she asked quickly, to detain him a moment longer, because she felt he wanted to escape.

"Whenever you wish. As you can see, I haunt these halls for several hours a day – you are free to come at any time during business hours. I will know you're here. Au revoir, mademoiselle."

Christine almost didn't hear his footsteps – he moved with utter confidence and stealth in the dark. She shielded her eyes when the light above her suddenly sprang to life. Squinting, trying to adjust her slightly blurred vision to the light, she saw a dark-gloved hand slide gracefully, snake-like, away from the switch at the door. The man to whom it belonged was already outside, out of her field of vision. Her curiosity almost dragged her to the door and she looked around, trying to at least catch a glimpse of him.

The corridor she had entered was completely lifeless.


	11. Chapter 11

To be honest, I am not satisfied with this chapter. Not at all. I want the pacing to be realistic, I don't want either of them to go gaga very soon… but with this Erik being mostly Kay with tinges of Leroux, who can tell what might happen?

I've also decided that he'll be wearing a full mask. No trace of Gerik here, folks. I want him to be 100 percent authentic and I'm doing my best to keep that promise. Another thing: the lack of romance is necessary, it will take some time before any signs of interest, let alone mutual feelings, appear. So far, it's mostly RC, because, well, that's the natural thing. This isn't love at first sight, you can guess. Erik is too bitter and guarded for that and Christine… well, there wasn't a first sight yet! Hehe.

Anyway, Euterpe is the muse of music. And once I heard this aria, I absolutely knew it would be fitting for this chapter. So yes, that's about the only thing about this chapter that I like. Besides the length – over eight pages! That's more than my standard, plus a quick update! What more could you guys want? Oh, yeah ECness. Well, not yet. Any ideas, feel free to send them in. I love suggestions, especially when I have need of them. And I certainly do.

End of ramble.

PS: Gotta love Elvis the parrot. Oh, and: review!

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**Chapter 11**

X X X X

"Alright, Chris, you can't avoid answering me forever. Details, details, details!" Meg rambled several days later.

It was Sunday morning and the ever-bubbly Meg was back. After finishing the photos for the trial, she had returned to her normal hectic existence. That, however, didn't stop her from inviting herself along for a snack at Mrs. Valerius´ - the old lady had laughed when Meg revealed, in mock-serious tones, that their conspiracy had been revealed. Right now, Meg was attempting to get details about the clear dates she had had with Raoul out of Christine. After all, the brunette claimed, Christine spent hours and hours with her cell phone turned off and always seemed to be busy.

"There's nothing much to tell, Meg." Christine sighed, "We went ice skating on Friday and I fell about a dozen times. We had a good laugh, remembered the good old days and I didn't manage to stop on the ice and crashed into him once. Nothing major."

She had called Raoul almost immediately after she left the opera house on Monday and Her ice skating was worse than she had believed – she could hardly stand on the twin blades. Raoul had had a few good laughs on her attempting to stand up and failing, swaying and falling again… generally, it was as if they were two teenagers on a first date again. Christine had had a good time.

As for her vocal lessons, she hadn't received one word of praise, but she could tell that her voice was getting better after each lesson. Two days ago, she had mastered the arietta completely and the next day, she had been given a new, more challenging piece. What surprised her was that Erik had actually managed to solve the cello problem so simply that she almost had to slap herself for her stupidity. He had recorded the cello part of the accompaniment and brought it with him on a CD, along with a small radio. She had no idea how he had gotten the sound to sound so pure, but it was almost as if there was a real cellist sitting there with them. Crystal clear sound and complete mastery of the instrument. She could only marvel.

"Per la più vaga e bella. The shepherd's song from _La liberazione di Ruggiero dal´isola d´Alcina_, by Francesca Caccini." Erik had told her.

"A pants role, then?" Christine had asked, listening to him play it. It didn't require another instrument this time – just voice and piano. "Isn't that from an opera?"

"Yes, the only one by Signorina Caccini that had been preserved." His voice had said.

Christine was surprised. "A woman composed an opera?"

"Don't be so surprised. Francesca was the daughter of the composer of the first opera ever, _Euridice_. It shouldn't be so surprising." He finished playing the vocal line and closed the lid of the piano. They were still in the dark room, so Christine could rely only on her ears. Over time, however, she had managed to get her eyes used to the pitch-black atmosphere. Not that she could see anything of Erik, really, but she managed to spot his silhouette occasionally, which she imagined was a great success. All that she saw was that he was very tall and quite thin, but not unhealthily so.

"You may pose your question for today." He had said to her afterwards and she saw his eyes turn to her.

Everything was going wonderfully. She was progressing with astonishing speed once he had convinced her that opening her mouth was a good thing and once she managed to relax in his presence. Her tone was considerably less shaky and the new song went a tone higher than the last one. The jumps between tones were about the same size as those in the previous arietta. Truth to be told, he was as afraid of her progress as he was thrilled about it. Within less than a week, she had progressed as much as another person would have about a month of training.

"I'm not buying that, Chris." Meg interrupted her thoughts and brought her back to the present. "You constantly have that look on your face."

"What look?" Christine asked, perplexed.

"The weird look you always have when you're working – only magnified. It's a strange mix of determination, stubbornness and some insane kind of happiness that I simply can't determine."

Christine was saved the need to reply to that by the beeping of her phone. She felt a slight satisfaction when she saw that it was from Sorelli. She had sent her the lyrics of the arietta she was studying. It was short and she didn't trust AltaVista enough to translate it correctly. Sorelli had taken up the task quite cheerfully, as she spoke Italian fluently.

_Hi, Christine. Here's the translation – romantic choice, by the way. I had to change the third sentence, because the first translation that came to mind was weird. "Which are sprinkled with cinnamon" sounds weird. Raoul never seemed the type to serenade a woman… too reliant on his boyish looks. If it's from some other secret admirer, tell the guy to give Philip lessons in romance, marry Raoul and keep the other guy – romantic guys are hard to find. Kudos! Sorelli_

The astonished gasp Christine had made was enough for Meg to throw herself on the sofa next to her and read the translation and the message with her.

_Love, let me be happy!  
Let me kiss those lips  
Which taste of cinnamon  
I serve you as a debtor, blinded archer_

Meg whistled quietly. "Talk about poetic… Raoul gave you that poem?"

Christine shook her head. "No… it's just an old song."

"An old song which you remembered suddenly and needed to know the translation of the lyrics?" Meg asked, raising an eyebrow, "Come on, spill the beans, Chrissie. Tell Meg all about it."

"About what?"

"About the song, about where you got it, about the other guy Sorelli had guessed exists."

"Meg!"

"Look, I might not know Raoul very well, but he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy that would be searching for an Italian love ballad for his girlfriend. He seems more like the roses and expensive wine kind of guy."

"Girlfriend?" Christine frowned. "I wouldn't go that far, Meg, we're just old friends…"

"And that's why he's been walking on air this past week, as Sorelli informed me." The brunette interrupted, "And why he calls you every day simply to check how your day has been. The poor guy is head over heels, Chris – just because he hasn't told you that doesn't mean it isn't true. Sorelli says that the longest his past relationships have lasted were up to three days, the second two of which were filled with his attempts to politely tell the woman in question that he didn't think it would work! It's love, sweetie."

"_Love me tender… love me sweet…_" Elvis the parrot began singing from the other room at once. Meg gave the bird an amused look. She had grown quite fond of the parrot and even Mrs. Valerius had a nagging suspicion that he was a great part of the reason why Meg liked to go visit the Valerius household with Christine.

Christine was silent for a moment, listening to _Love me tender_. She obviously couldn't tell Meg the whole angel tale that had appeased Mrs. Valerius, but she felt this was something personal. Until lunch had liberated her, she had to endure Meg´s rambles about just what she would do if she were in Christine's shoes. The blonde was only half listening. Only vaguely did she notice that Meg noted that she seemed pretty distant this week and heard herself automatically answering that she had a lot of work. After lunch, however, she excused herself and left Mrs. Valerius and Meg alone. She rushed to her car and drove away… to her lesson, of course.

Meg watched the car leave through the window. Christine had never been a very sociable person, but she had never retreated so deep into her shell.

"Don't worry, Meg, she's simply off to see her good genius." Mrs. Valerius said as she brought desert. Christine had skipped that altogether.

Meg looked at the elderly lady. "Her good genius?" she repeated. She didn't get it.

"Her angel of music, of course!" Mrs. Valerius smiled, "He has been teaching her to sing, as I understand. You know how devoted Christine can get to her work. I imagine she strives to appease her angel."

_Angel? _Meg frowned. Christine had never lied to Mrs. Valerius before… but then again, perhaps she shouldn't take it literally, she decided. But singing? Christine was afraid of it just as a cat was afraid of water. Angel of music? A strange pseudonym. She didn't dwell on it much, but she decided that she would, for the time being, become slightly more serious and less carefree around Christine. They had no secrets; after all, they were best friends. Why hadn't Christine told her that she was taking vocal training, then?

X X X

"And now, the inevitable – your question."

Christine bit her lip. Another lesson was over, once again, she had endured commands and demands, felt completely drained and exhausted, but at the same time, satisfied. She had been scolded several times that she was slightly distracted, but eventually, she had managed to focus.

It was their last day at Covent Garden, if she remembered correctly.

She had found out so much and yet so little about Erik throughout the past few days. He had told her that his favourite composer was Mozart, as she had predicted, but that he wasn't on bad terms with some of Puccini's works and he found Verdi's Aida charming. His opinions about the current situation in the musical world. His thoughts about operetta and musical. The qualities a voice from this or that fach has to have. Cautiously, she had avoided any personal questions, as she had promised, but she knew that she would have to ask some of them soon enough.

"Why do you teach me?" she asked suddenly.

"That's not a professional question, you know."

"Yes, but it's been running through my mind all this time. Why do you, a renowned composer who is about to blow the world away with a new opera, take the time to teach a completely unqualified rookie like me when divas, were they not so self-centred, would kill to have you instruct them personally. Don't tell me it's just because you wanted to answer my questions. I know you answer them only to make me come here."

"Ah, my grand master plan is revealed and ruined." he said dryly. Christine glared into the darkness. "Put it this way, mademoiselle: you have done me the favour of not asking me any questions you feel I wouldn't answer. Allow me to repay that favour by not giving you answers to questions you wouldn't like."

"Would it kill you to give me a straight answer just once?" Christine sighed.

"I couldn't be giving you a clearer answer." Erik noted coolly, "To descend to your level of childishness, I am your teacher and I don't have to explain my motives to you. This isn't a confession and you aren't a priest."

Christine was silent for a moment. She had the distinct feeling that the mention of something that concerned Christianity had angered him somewhat. "I apologize." she whispered, "Here you give me the opportunity of a lifetime that anyone in my place would kill for and I try going philosophical on you. I'm sorry. I should… I should have remained professional. Forgive me."

She could almost swear she heard him sigh. "There is no reason for your apologies. I am a complicated man, Mademoiselle Daaé, and you needn't be burdened with my troubles. What matters is that your voice is a gift and my professional interest in music refuses me to allow it to go to waste. You are something of a…"

"Project?" she interrupted, uncertain if she wanted to know the confirmation.

"In a way. I want to see if I can take that raw talent and shape a professional voice. Then, perhaps, I would try teaching professionals how I want them to use their voices. Of course, it is much easier to work with a fresh voice than an already flawed one. They are bound by their own mediocrity and that of their teachers, the modern opera singers. And shaping a stone into a statue is far easier than correcting a messed up statue of another. Not to mention more pleasurable."

"I'm a piece of rock in your eyes?"

"No, but you sing with about as much emotion as a piece of rock would." Erik noted, half amused by the scowl she gave him. "That is your greatest problem. If you were to sing Carmen, you'd look like a lost schoolgirl, even if you could sing it. But we will deal with expression that eventually."

"You… you want me to sing opera?"

Erik heard the panic in her voice. "Au contraire, mademoiselle. You are already singing opera. Both of the pieces you now have are from operas, albeit early operas and ones easy for the voice. I don't expect you to sing _Martern aller Arten_ after less then a week of vocal lessons, so you can easily relax. But you can learn much on classical songs."

_Martern aller Arten?_ She didn't know that particular aria, though she might have heard about it somewhere. Still, she concluded that it was probably insanely difficult – hence his use of its name. "Sometimes, I'm afraid of you."

_You have no idea what you are talking about, _he thought wryly. "So you have said before. Now please, ask the question you wished to ask and we can say our goodbyes for today."

"Have you thought about how we will continue the vocal lessons after the end of the week?" she asked.

"Either you don't have a proper question for today or you're trying to make me slip and tell you something. Yes, I have thought about it and made a decision."

"Dark rooms and mysterious vocal tricks?" she asked with a brief smile.

"No." That surprised her. "The question you're trying to ask and trying to avoid asking is: who am I? Why all this hiding, these tricks – all for effect, it seems, all for show. You yearn to ask me my name."

Christine was startled by his powers of observation. She had tired to hide her interest in him as a person – not that many people could, as he brought the term alluring to new heights – and her professionalism proved to be an ineffective see-through shield.

"Y-yes." She found herself stuttering. "Yes, I… I would like to ask that."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to know? Isn't what I have given you enough?" There was some kind of pain in his voice, an indefinable emotion.

She was unable to answer. "Please don't be angry with me."

"That is no answer."

"You are one big mystery to me. And with each answer, more questions pop up. It's my job to understand the people I write about, you know that. I… I feel I almost understand your music, but I don't understand you."

"After a week of knowing me, that's a great disappointment." Erik noted coldly. "Don't concern yourself with who I am. It isn't the time – perhaps it will never be. I promised that you would be allowed to ask questions, not that you will get answers. Questions about my music, not about me."

"But your music…! It is the essence of who you are!"

There was a long silence. "How can you know that?"

"Art is a reflection of reality, everyone knows that."

"Then enlighten me why you sing as if you were to die if you showed a tinge of emotion."

Christine felt a knot in her stomach tighten. She bowed her head. "It doesn't matter anyway. I sing like a cat whose tail had gotten between a slammed door and the doorframe."

"Do you always avoid answering questions?"

"I guess you could teach me much about that."

There was a long silence, but Christine knew he was still there, watching her. "You are an interesting young woman, Mademoiselle Daaé." he said finally, "And we seem to have one thing in common – neither of us wishes to drag their personal problems into this cooperation." Thoughts and ideas swirled through his mind. He didn't want to anger her or make her feel endangered or offended. The short week had allowed him to see that she had, perhaps, even more potential than he thought.

But he couldn't show himself to her. He didn't want to, actually. There was no reason… other than the fact that she could walk out of his life at any moment. And that was what he desired the least at the moment. After such a long time of solitude and separation from the world, when his only company was his music and science, he didn't think he could still desire the presence of another person. Within a week, that illusion had been shattered. He found that he had no inspiration until spending those few hours with her, guiding her voice. The power it had over him frightened him to a certain degree. It made him _feel_… and he felt happiness each time she hit a higher note than last time, each time she repeated a phrase without a previously corrected mistake.

But he found himself composing not only the opera he had to compose, but also the almost forgotten _Don Juan Triumphant_, rewriting it and adding bits and pieces. It became increasingly obvious that he was writing material for her voice and, surprisingly, it didn't bother him that much.

"I will amend my question, then." Christine said quietly, "I'll ask you this: is Erik really your first name, or just a pseudonym? You don't have to answer. If you choose not to, I'll understand."

"There is a perfect song for this, mademoiselle." Erik said, bringing the conversation back to the neutral area: music. "And it will be your answer." He didn't let her answer, simply played the introduction to one of the most famous and most difficult opera arias in the world.

_Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!_

_Tu pure, o Principessa,  
nella tua fredda stanza  
guardi le stelle  
che tremano d'amore e di speranza..._

_Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,  
il nome mio nessun saprà!  
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,  
quando la luce splenderà!_

He sang quietly, quieter than it should be sung on the stage, perhaps, but Christine didn't mind. His version of the aria was unlike anything she had ever heard. She was positively certain that he meant only one line as his answer, despite the emotion he put into the singing.

_Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me, il nome mio nessun saprà! But my secret is hidden within me, my name no one shall know! No, no…_

He stopped singing suddenly. Somehow, he didn't find the ending appropriate. Even the last line he had sung was too daring and could be misinterpreted if Christine knew this song, which was highly probable, as it had been sung at the winter Olympics by Pavarotti and even at the 1990 world cup. _No, no, I shall say it upon your mouth when the light shines! _

The trance broke and Christine found herself slightly disappointed that he didn't finish the song. "Why have you stopped?" she asked, hearing the lid of the piano close.

"Because art reflects reality, as you have said. I cannot sing: Vanish, o night! Set, stars! At dawn, I will win!" Erik explained. He skipped the line _Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio  
che ti fa mia_ altogether.

Christine shook her head. "I wish I understood you."

"Do you truly?"

She nodded. "I have never met anyone quite as intimidating, talented and… sad… such as you. You are truly a wonder, monsieur."

_You are the wonder, my young student. You endure my commands without protests. _"You may call me Erik." He said, dismissing the compliments. He wasn't sure how to react. He had been called talented and intimidating before, but not sad. Clearly, she was right. She almost understood his music. Almost… but one without the knowledge of his face had no way of understanding fully. "It _is_ my real name."

"Since I am hereby finished with my work in the Royal Opera House, you can call me Christine." she said, feeling slightly more cheerful, "Now I'm only your student, not your interviewer. Unless you wish me to continue prodding you with my persistent inquiries?"

For the first time ever, it seemed, his eyes seemed to brighten up instead of darkening. He didn't laugh and probably didn't smile either, but he seemed to be at least slightly amused by her suggestion. "Might I have your phone number? So that I can tell you where to go for the next lesson."

"I can't write it down in the dark…"

"No need. My memory is, most unfortunately, far too good for my liking." Christine frowned, but recited the number without problems.

"Before you leave…" she began quickly, when he stood up.

"I think there has been quite enough soul searching for today, wouldn't you say?" he said wryly.

Christine smiled briefly. "Yes, but… I would be very honored if you would sing the rest of the aria for me."


	12. Chapter 12

I like this chapter more than the last one. Although it is Elvis-free, I think this goes a bit deeper into the characters´ psyche than those before it. I hope you enjoy it.

X X X

**Chapter 12**

X X X X

Christine was feeling very strange when she left their "training room" that day. She had heard Erik sing the arietta for her, but that was simply for training purposes. _Nessun Dorma_ was a longer and more emotional aria, a love song even most of the people who had nothing to do with opera had heard of.

But when _he_ had been singing it, it felt completely different than when she had listened to famous tenors sing it. Not only was Erik's voice positively the voice of an angel, but he had poured emotion into even this art, which he had clearly mastered as perfectly as composing and playing all those instruments. Compared to him, Christine felt very insignificant. Anyone would, she knew, but the fact that she met him every day and each time saw more clearly just how immensely talented the man was did nothing to help her ego.

She had already given up hopes of catching as much as a glimpse of him if he didn't wish it, so she was thoroughly surprised when, one staircase higher, someone put a hand on her shoulder. It was Raoul.

"Christine?" he asked, covering his surprise with a smile, "I thought I was mistaken… what are you doing here? I sincerely hope this means you've missed me that much, Little Lotte!"

"Raoul! Hi…" Christine relaxed slightly. She had completely forgotten that there was a chance of encountering Raoul in these halls. The fact that he was one of the patrons probably allowed him unlimited access to the Royal Opera House. She responded with the truth: "I'm writing an article on Covent Garden, I've been interviewing some of the cast and crew."

"Great, that means I will get to see you more."

"Well, actually, I'm done. I was just leaving."

"Then let me give you a lift home." Raoul said hopefully.

She laughed slightly. "Raoul… I've got my own car parked in front of the building."

The Vicomte sighed in defeat. "The Fates are against me, it seems. But perhaps, at least, you will allow me to attempt to invite you for dinner." Christine bit her lip. She had been planning on getting herself some salad and soda and write down some of the things she wanted to put into the article – Lefévre wanted it ready by Wednesday and she had a lot to do, not to mention her lessons with Erik, which also counted as work.

But accepting the invitation to dinner might prove strategically good – Raoul wouldn't be able to pester her about her being busy or avoiding him. And nothing could prove more refreshing than a dinner with a friend, no matter what Meg might think. He was actually right – she had missed him, but she knew better than to flatter his ego.

She gave a tired smile and Raoul´s mind was screaming a loud YES! He had been looking forward to seeing Christine again and this sudden change of plans was very much alright with him. Neither of them were dressed for a romantic date, but he had the feeling that if he would point out that what he wanted was a date, not a dinner of friends, she might get frightened and refuse. He would tell her later.

Not too far away, a pair of yellow eyes had narrowed. Erik knew the Vicomte de Chagny when he saw him, but the casual and informal way he had greeted Christine surprised him. Apparently, the two knew each other, because she responded by calling him Raoul. And the boy immediately proceeded to attempt to invite her to diner, which she tried to refuse… albeit very hesitantly, as if she was simply playing hard to get. Yet she didn't seem to be that type of woman.

_Not that I would know much about types of women._ Erik thought darkly.

His interest in this one was platonic, yet he found himself feeling a strange annoyance and dislike for the young Vicomte. The boy had just about everything and he didn't even realize it – every female in the opera house, including even Carlotta, who tried to remain the untouchable prima donna, was swooning, sighing or at least giving him loving looks whenever he passed. One had to admit, however, that it wasn't for no reason.

Raoul de Chagny was of medium height, for a man, slim, but he held his head high, yet not arrogantly. His long dark blonde hair fell to his shoulders casually and his clear blue eyes shone with warmth. His features were smooth and regular, almost boyish, despite the fact that he had outgrown his teenage years almost a decade ago. He had a pleasant voice, a humble and kind personality and was ridiculously rich. The perfect fairytale Prince Charming. One had to wonder how come women in bridal gowns weren't chasing him wherever he went, trying to claim him as their husband.

Even when Christine refused the first two offers, the naïve determination in his eyes remained. Finally, when she gave up and accepted his dinner invitation, he seemed as if he had just been crowned King of the World.

Erik watched them walk away together. He was perfectly willing to accept that an attractive young woman such as Christine – he could freely admit that while she wasn't the usual model-like beauty queen, she was beautiful in her own way – had a boyfriend. But such relationships take a lot of time which, in Christine's case, would be better spent practicing or training her voice. He couldn't, of course, stop her from working in that magazine of hers, but her involvement with the Vicomte was a distraction. Hopefully he wouldn't have to be the one to remind her of her primary goals in life.

Relationships like this came and went. Music was permanent.

X X X

Christine found herself feeling strangely foreign in the expensive restaurant Raoul had led her off to. It was lavishly decorated, with historical furniture and sparkling chandeliers. All of the clientele seemed to be dressed better than she was, but the waitress recognized Raoul at once and almost started groveling, offering them the best table available. Raoul insisted that they would have one of the most expensive specialties on the menu, even though Christine insisted that she rarely ate much for dinner.

"I can afford it, Christine, don't worry." He said to calm her, smiling once the waitress took off. "Besides, it's the best they have here, I'm sure you'll love it." Christine mumbled an ashamed thanks, because clearly he had decided that he was the one paying for the expensive dinner. Raoul smiled, as if reading her thoughts. "I invited you, Christine. Besides, nothing is too good for you, Little Lotte."

The waitress returned with a bottle of French champagne, a present from the house, she said excitedly before opening the bottle with a loud pop. The cork flew out, but caused no damage, and she poured Raoul a glass. Once the Vicomte approved it, she handed him the bottle and Raoul poured it into Christine's glass. The blonde looked at it, unsurprised when she recognized the name the most expensive wine on the list.

"To pleasant reunions." Raoul toasted. She repeated the toast and took a sip of the champagne. It was fantastic, even to her tastes, and she didn't like alcohol that much. "So," he began and smiled mischievously, "what terrible secrets have you dug out at Covent Garden? Should we prepare for a scandal?"

Christine laughed, despite herself. Somehow, it was easy to laugh and smile around Raoul, just as it had been back then, when they had first met. "No, no scandals. Everything is thoroughly normal. Besides, my article won't deal with scandals or hidden dirty little secrets."

"What then? Can't say I understand why you would choose to write another article about the opera house when you have a spectacular review under your belt already. I read it, I loved it." Raoul confessed.

"To be honest, this was my idea. I imagine many journalists would try to dig up something, but with my connections, I've had a little more luck. I asked Lefévre, my boss, if I could do a bit of searching and interviewing people about Erik. You know, what it's like to work under such an unorthodox director, how they cope with the demands and requests, etc." Christine explained.

"I must warn you, if you're trying to find him, you're out of luck. He never comes to the opera and yet… he's there." Raoul shook his head, "The guy's a ghost even the Ghost Busters wouldn't find. But you've taken a good angle, you should have more luck than that Buquet guy."

This caught Christine's attention. "Buquet? Joe Buquet? From _the Sun_?"

Raoul nodded, "Yeah, he was trying to get permission to do a little ghost hunt, to use his terms. Richard and Moncharmin turned him down, naturally. Philip wouldn't allow some wanna-be reporter into the opera house, especially because he doesn't think very highly of _the Sun_. I guess you got your yes simply because Phil pitched in, this kind of visit isn't normally allowed."

_I'm very lucky, then. _Christine thought. One of these days, she would have to thank Philip very much for this. "But enough about work," she said before he would have a chance to delve further into this, "How have you been?"

Raoul waved a dismissing, disinterested hand. "The usual. Phil keeps me on a tight leash, you know, trying to get me to be a respectable businessman. The only way to calm him is to actually _be_ that respectable businessman. But I'm making progress, I'm getting the hand of financial politics, so I might get an assignment of my own someday soon. Nothing major, just so Phil can see how I can handle myself on my own."

"I wish I had a brother like that." Christine said, slightly wistfully. "To take care of me and do all the paperwork, deal with my bills…"

"After a week, you'd go nuts and would be begging for the life of an only child, trust me." Raoul laughed, "My only fortune is that I'm the little brother and Phil's so mature, being older than me. I get to have my little escapades, provided I behave at work. I think that's why he tolerates my hockey obsession – it rids me of the unnecessary energy and then I'm a good, well-behaved boy at the meetings."

Their food had arrived, which broke their conversation for a moment. Then, they ate in silence, a little lost in thought. The food was delicious, but Christine didn't even dare think of how much it would cost. Raoul didn't seem to be troubled at all, however, so she decided to relax. She was still a bit nervous, because the number of forks on the table definitely wasn't what she was used to. Fortunately, she didn't seem to require any of the others.

"Are you busy next weekend?" Raoul asked suddenly. Christine looked up, realizing at that exact moment that he had been looking at her for some time.

She swallowed and shook her head. "I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I remembered that Philip and I will be moving to our summer residence within the upcoming month and the house needs a little inspection… I was wondering if you would like to spend the weekend in Cherbourg with me." he said hopefully.

Christine almost dropped her fork. She hadn't forgotten about her lessons, but she had been hoping that this would be simply an invitation to the park, not to France! Her lessons couldn't be ignored. "Raoul, I… well…" she managed a surprised smile, "I confess you surprised me. Isn't this the kind of thing a boyfriend would offer a girlfriend?"

Raoul looked down at his food. He was right – she was slightly jumpy about this topic. But he was positively certain that their relationship should advance to the next level. One might think that it was a hasty decision, but Raoul had spent over a decade thinking of her as a friend. He didn't think he was quite willing to wait longer to call her something more. The very fact that she had remained as he remembered her from his happy memories was miraculous and he knew that the image of her had lasted within his heart for this long, their relationship could last for at least twice as much.

"Christine," he said gently, "I don't want to push you into anything you might dislike. But I had to wait twelve years to be able to tell you that I enjoy your company. That I like you. I don't know if it's love – we have too much catching up to do to consider it that serious – but the fact remains, you've maintained a special place in my heart for years. And I think… I think that part of the reason why my relationships never last, as Sorelli so gladly boasts, is because I keep comparing every woman to the little girl with the red scarf I once knew."

Christine felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She guessed she just had normal skin color now, rather than her usual pale ivory shade, but it didn't help. Blushing like a schoolgirl was something she had hoped she had outgrown years ago. Nevertheless, she was glad that she hadn't made a bet with Meg about this. His words weren't too forward, actually, and she found a small voice in her head agreeing and yearning to say yes. That would mean that she would have to tell Erik that she wouldn't be able to get to two of their lessons, of course. That was a less appealing prospect.

"I… I'll try to make sure my weekend stays work-free." she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the glass of champagne.

Raoul felt his spirits soar high. He had been afraid that she would get nervous and turn him down… but this was a wonderful response! Had the table not been separating them, he would have embraced her.

"Amazing!" he said, a wide smile appearing on his face. "You'll enjoy it, Christine, I promise you. Our villa is almost directly on the shore. It's not a big town, but it's nice if you want privacy, the sea and good food. If you get homesick, we can just cross the English Channel and take a ride home. Alright?"

Christine nodded weakly. Meg would keep throwing this into her face for the next century, she thought wryly, and Sorelli wouldn't stop at anything to make her a wedding dress, she could imagine. The two were a formidable pair for two ballerinas, especially when it came to gossip. And keeping this quiet would be hard, especially since Meg was keeping an eye on her and Sorelli was apparently keeping a record of Raoul´s failed relationships.

They finished their meals about half an hour later. Raoul paid the gigantic bill without any surprise or concern and offered Christine his arm as they stood up to leave. Some of the people in the restaurant glanced at them curiously. Christine felt like a real princess now. Raoul even insisted on accompanying her to her car, at least, if he couldn't have the privilege of giving her a lift home.

Their goodbyes were only slightly awkward now and Raoul kissed her on the cheek lightly. She didn't withdraw and fully expected Meg to squeal once they would meet at work tomorrow and she would tell her about this. It was no use keeping things from Meg – she had an eye for secret-keeping people and was better than Scooby Doo when it came to solving mysteries.

X X X

Meg entered the building of the _Deacon_ slightly quieter than usual, which was a major surprise for everyone that encountered her. She was never a person to be lost in thought. Her greetings were absent-minded and she made a beeline for Christine's desk once she entered the correct room. Christine, who was collecting her things to move into her own office today, looked up and was perfectly ready to give the brunette a friendly hello, but her would-be-smile froze once she saw that Meg seemed to be very serious.

"Look who woke up on the wrong side of the bed." Christine said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Christine, be honest with me." Meg said, a bit dramatic for her own liking. Christine sensed at once that Meg was in a bad mood or something serious had happened. She never used her full name unless one of those options was true. "Where did you go when you left Mrs. V.´s yesterday?"

"The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden." Christine said, surprised that Meg would ask this. "You know how I like preceding deadlines. Well, I had a chance to do it and so I used it. I have all the materials I need, I'll hand it over to Lef tomorrow. Why?"

Meg sighed and sat down on her desk, looking around to make sure no one was listening in. everyone seemed to be preoccupied with their work, however, and there was no one nearby – only complete lunatics like Christine sat in the offices ten minutes early. "Look, I talked to Mrs. V. after you left. I'm not sure if I understood her completely, but from what she said, I understood that you have a music teacher."

Christine paled slightly, if that was at all possible. "Why would you assume that?"

"You told me about your father's stories – I think we're both old enough to know that there isn't an angel of music." Meg bit her lip, "I'd just like to know why you haven't told me about this. You know I want the best for you, honey, but I thought we didn't keep secrets from each other. You know, best friends and all that?"

"Meg… I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about it." Christine sighed, "This is… complicated."

"So I was right?" Meg asked, the ah-HA! gleam in her eyes taking over.

Christine knew she was defeated right now. "Can I safely assume that your lips are sealed?"

Meg passed two fingers over her lips, as if she were closing a zip and then threw away the "key". "You have my word. Sorry for the drama," she apologized sheepishly, "but you seemed so distracted this past week. I was worried. That was when you started taking lessons, right?" Christine nodded. "So, when am I going to meet this teacher of yours? Assuming it's a guy, the three usual questions: is he single, is he interesting, is he hot?" her usual smile returned to her face.

"Your answers: one, I don't know, but I would assume single. Two, you have absolutely no idea how much. And three: I can't say."

Meg mock scowled. "Chris, you're taken, you can tell me. By the way, how are you and Raoul going? Has he proclaimed is undying love for you yet?"

"If by that you mean inviting me to a villa in France and saying that he likes me but doesn't want to push me, I guess the answer is yes." Christine said bluntly. Predictably, Meg squealed with happiness.

"Mr. Right within sensor range!" she cried, "I'm sitting with a future Vicomtess!" she mimed fainting. Christine hissed at her to shut up and hit her forearm. "Don't worry," Meg winked, "my lips are sealed tight. Now, answer my question. How come you don't know? Unless you're planning on dumping Raoul, a decision which would earn you an honored place in the asylum?"

"No! No, of course not." Christine shook her head. Erik and… her? Absurd. For one thing, they wouldn't have anything to talk about – she was completely plain and uninteresting. She rarely left England for anything else than vacation, while he roamed the world practically every day. Another thing was that he seemed far more mature than she. Besides, while she knew a lot about Erik the composer, she knew very little about Erik the man. Her interest in him wasn't one of a groupie or a screaming fan. And his interest in her was purely because of her voice, he had said it quite clearly himself. She imagined anyone would tremble upon hearing such a voice and he certainly had a dominant presence but… the point was, the very idea was ridiculous.

"Then what? You don't think I have a chance? You think I'm too _fat_?" Meg said in tones of mock-outrage. "Really, Chris, just tell me. He's the one who gave you that song, right? The one in Italian? Well, to learn, not romantic-wise, I guess. But still… why can't you say."

Christine explained how their lessons went, taking care not to mention who her tutor in fact was. Meg gawped, but seemed intrigued. "Wow, Chris. Are you sure that guy hasn't walked out of a nineteenth century novel? Because I was pretty sure mysterious gentlemen died out in about that period."


	13. Chapter 13

Wow… my third favorite authoress sent me a wonderful review! I think I'm going to have to try harder when it comes to this phic. Anyway, I've been working on the unmasking scene now, a bit ahead, I know, but combine that and studying for school and a slight sickness I had to go through and you have a sufficient answer as to why I have not updated for some time.

I've also reread some of my favorite phics and did a slight statistic on relationship development when it comes to EC phics. Usually, it takes some chapters until the relationships develops into a romance (at least the one-sided variety), so to be true to statistics, so far, it's not a real romance. A one-sided obsession and a one-sided infatuation, perhaps, but not love… yet.

Another thing: I might be too busy to write, because I'm listening to the Lestat demo recording I found. The musical might have had bad reviews, but some of the songs are good.

This chapter is a bit shorter than usual – it balances out the long one I gave you guys before.

X X X

**Chapter 13**

X X X X

Christine's telephone rang right on cue. Meg, who was closer to her purse and whose hands weren't full, dug it out and glanced at the displayed number, then frowning. Christine, putting the box with her things on her table, snatched the phone from her hands quickly. Missing calls wasn't her custom and calling people back was just annoying. Not to mention that she was the one paying for that.

"Christine Daaé speaking." she said quickly, pressing the "yes" button with expertise.

"Good morning," Christine lost balance for a moment and almost knocked the box on the table over. Meg jumped out of the way swiftly, giving Christine an amused look. "I trust I haven't woken you up?"

Christine laughed lightly and Meg´s amusement turned into a puzzled face. Christine laughing because of a phone call? She tried to listen more closely, but she couldn't hear much. What was clear was that it certainly wasn't Raoul´s voice – she would have recognized it. "No, no, I'm at work already. I'm glad you're calling – I was a bit afraid when I gave you my number…"

"Understandable, though I hope you won't doubt again." Erik said smoothly and Christine found herself nodding obediently in response. "I'm calling regarding our lesson today – I'm afraid that I might not be able to make it."

"Why?" Christine asked, forgetting herself for a moment.

"You see, currently, I'm enjoying the sunny midday weather at Piazza Scala in Milan," at this point, Christine's eyes widened, "and I might be required to spend the rest of the day here. Probably even longer, depending on how persistent the resident management will be. I really can't say." His voice showed frustration.

"That's too bad… I mean, it's great, but… well, I'm sorry you can't make it."

"Don't worry too much about it – unless you're willing to fly all the way to Milan, I'm afraid that today isn't really an option. Of course, I _could_ arrange a ticket for you…" he mused.

Christine's eyes widened. "Are you crazy? I don't have time for that…"

"Relax, mademoiselle." Erik chuckled slightly and she felt a shiver pass through her, "I may be, as you so elegantly put it, crazy, but I understand the limitation of time and space. That, however, doesn't mean that I won't be checking if you've been practicing. Be sure to expect rather lengthy phone calls within the next few days. Hopefully, by Friday, everything will be normal once more."

_Normal? Is anything at all normal with you? _Christine thought, slightly amused. Then, she remembered that she had been awaiting this call for reasons other than just amusement. "I almost forgot – I don't think _I _will be able to make it during the weekend. I got an invitation to go to France…"

"With the Vicomte de Chagny?" Erik finished the sentence for her, leaving Christine to stare into space with blank wonder.

"Yes… how did you know that?"

"One of the benefits of being a ghost is that you see and hear all that happens in the building you haunt." he said humorlessly, rather cynically, "I cannot prevent you from having a relationship with that boy, nor is it my desire to delve into your personal life. As your teacher, however, I am responsible for your voice and a trip such as this isn't what I would call good for you."

"But you're in Italy and that's alright…!" Christine began, slightly angry.

"Yes, because _I _am not the one whose voice needs training." he hissed back, "If I had a choice, I would certainly _not_ be here, if it comforts you to know that. Solving the incompetence of others is rather annoying business. _You_, on the other hand, have the chance to refuse the journey to the ruin of your voice."

"But I can call you from France, we can have the lessons as you suggested we'd have them while you're in Italy…"

"No." he interrupted sternly, "Do not make promises you cannot keep, mademoiselle. Besides, I am quite certain Monsieur de Chagny wouldn't give you time to sing. I daresay he would prefer to put your mouth to other uses."

Christine's eyes widened a bit. She felt a slight anger, but embarrassment and a pang of guilt as well. She realized that he was right in one thing – if she would go with Raoul, she wouldn't sing a note all weekend. He would insist on buying expensive French wines and she knew well that alcohol weakened voices. Not to mention that she understood that impertinence and disobedience weren't traits Erik accepted easily when it came to a student.

"Alright, then." She said quietly, feeling a bit let down. "I shall cancel it. I will stay here for the lessons. I'll think of some excuse… it shouldn't be too difficult."

She didn't know whether she had imagined it or not, but she could almost swear she heard him sigh softly in relief. "Good. Be responsible and reasonable. That is all I ask. You may find this restricting right now, but I promise you, on the long run, it will be of great help to your voice. You can make it up to Monsieur de Chagny some other time, when it won't be threatening the development of your voice. Please don't be offended," his voice slipped to softer tones that killed any anger Christine felt with astonishing ease, "this is for your own good."

"I understand… you know better than I about what is good and bad for voices." Christine said humbly, "When should I await your call? I'm at work until about five p.m. today; I should be home at half past five. I don't know what time it is where you are."

"That is not an issue. Don't worry about anything – I will deal with everything we need."

"Sometimes, I really think you are my angel of music." Christine said with a small smile. There was a silence on the other end of the line for a moment, so Christine quickly said: "It's from an old story my father often told me. I just thought it was fitting."

"If you believe so." There was a slight hesitation in his voice. "I wish you a pleasant day at work, Mademoiselle Daaé." He hung up before she could correct him that he didn't have to call her "mademoiselle" anymore. Christine stared into space for a moment before she saw that Meg´s head was almost next to her ear and the brunette was doing her best to eavesdrop. Christine frowned and put the phone away.

"It's rude to listen in, you know." She remarked casually, giving Meg a frown, which the brunette shrugged off easily.

"Are you telling me you're canceling your romantic weekend in France?" the photographer demanded at once, "That you're actually going to turn Raoul down, even though you've already agreed?"

"Shall I repeat what I've just told you?"

Meg slipped off the desk, folded her arms and frowned at Christine. "Chris, I don't wanna be the one to lecture you, but guys like Raoul don't just fall out of the sky. Any girl in your shoes would grab him and drag him to the church within an instant. And you're letting him go? I understand the principles of playing hard to get, but I think you're taking this a wee bit too far."

"You don't understand, Megster." Christine sighed, "There are simply… more important things than one weekend in France."

"More important than spending a whole weekend in the company of an ideal guy?" Meg stared at her, dumbstruck. "I don't pretend to understand you, Chris. I mean, I know that work is number one in your life, but perhaps you would care to explain what exactly is replacing the date?"

"Work." Christine said flatly and, without waiting for Meg to pry further, she picked up her things and marched off to her office, wondering just how long she will have to keep this silence up. It was well worth it, she knew… but she hated being cold to Meg, of all people.

A very bewildered Meg kept glancing at her friend as she vanished behind the door of her new office. Christine had never been this dismissive with her, no matter how much she kept pestering her. This change of attitude was suspicious, at the very least… and Meg wasn't known for putting up with mysteries for long. The brunette slipped off the desk she was sitting on and folded her arms, frowning slightly. She had discovered one secret already. If Chrissie dear was keeping another, she was making it her business to find out what it was.

X X X

Hundreds of kilometers to the southeast, Erik was pacing in his hotel room like a caged animal. Only several hours ago, Nadir had called him to tell him that La Scala had offered almost twice as much as Covent Garden for the next opera he was writing. He was interested in hearing what they were willing to offer, but it also meant having to travel to Italy within the hour. Naturally, Nadir had almost no idea of his presence in Milan and was thoroughly annoyed by being kept in the dark. Not that he could do much about it, however.

His telephone beeped softly – it seemed to be after an eternity of waiting – and he picked it up with one fluid movement. He didn't even have to look at the display. There was only one person who would be calling him. Only one person knew his phone number and had any reason to dial it.

"Hello, Nadir." he said smoothly, expecting to hear a very irritated Persian on the other side.

He wasn't disappointed. "By Allah, Erik, the things you put me through!" Nadir Khan's voice lamented from the telephone. "They are quite ready to start a war in their own office! These opera managers are worse than a horde of bloodthirsty predators! Will you please tell me what I am supposed to say to them before there won't be anyone to show your operas?"

Erik smiled very slightly, "Their offer still stands?"

"Yes, yes, they're almost willing to double even that. They seem to be complete fanatics of your work and kept babbling about your unique genius. I refuse to repeat that to you, Erik, because it will be too much of an ego boost and you'll start thinking you're some demi-god." Nadir said crossly.

"Demi-god? Never, Nadir. If it must be, then at least a god. At the very least. Now, you have my plans. Simply recite to them what I wrote down for you and if they agree with _everything_ then you may accept their offer in my name. If they disagree with something, call me at once and I will deal with the negotiations."

The Persian sighed – he understood well that Erik would be willing to refuse the higher pay if the managers would refuse to follow his dictatorship. "And if they accept, will you move to Italy as you have moved to England? I imagine you will want to supervise the production, as you have done with _La Grue_."

"Now, now, that would be telling, Nadir. Don't worry about me or yourself, I will take care of anything and everything. You just do as I say and everything will be fine. And yes, I will be most certainly supervising the production. I have progressed somewhat with the composing, so I think I should be ready within two or three weeks. Writing humor is more difficult than it seems."

"You said you have been very busy." The Persian said suspiciously, "If you haven't finished the opera by now, I wonder what you have been up to. You usually make composing your top priority."

"The project that I have been working on is a very interesting one, you will find out about it in time. For now, let me tell you that I have discovered something very unique and soon, my operas will be famous not only for their music, but also for their interpretation. _Perfect_ interpretation, not that disgrace they had witnessed in Paris and London." Erik said proudly, "My work will be rewarded at long last."

Nadir was silent for a moment. He had always known that Erik was possessive when it came to his work and pursued perfection at all costs, but there was a strange edge to his voice that made the Persian nervous. He had never heard that kind of strange pride in it and it made him slightly jumpy. It was somewhat… possessive and overall, quite disturbing. Whatever he was talking about, he cared about it and wanted it to be perfect. Aside from the fact that that probably meant it was something unusual enough to catch his attention, it also meant that he would undoubtedly devote all of his attention to it until it would reach the level of perfection Erik wanted it to achieve. In short, if it wasn't something they could offer on the "music market", as Nadir called it, it was very bad for them.

"I hope you know what you are doing." The Persian said carefully, "You know that these people mean business and expect you to uphold your part of the contract, right?"

"I know damned well why they want to offer me their cash, Nadir." Erik said with a hint of irritation, "They will get their opera and it will be an enormous success. But its success will be greater once I finish what I began. I have new inspiration now, wonderful inspiration."

"Dare I even ask?"

Erik laughed mischievously, "Don't, it will be safer that way. Relax for a moment, daroga." His favored nickname for the Persian annoyed Nadir tremendously, but it was fitting. He truly pursued Erik like a police chief would… but certainly not without good reason.

"Relax around you, Erik? I dare not even think what the consequences of that would be."

The only response he received was another laugh that sent shivers down the Persian's spine. Erik laughing was either a very good or a very bad sign, never in-between. Then the connection was broken and Nadir found himself standing in silence in the building of La Scala. He had excused himself from the managers´ offices by telling them that he had to call Erik about the details. That had been the only thing that managed to silence them effectively. Ever since he had arrived, they had been fighting, bickering… he didn't have to say a word, they were practically throwing themselves at his feet, begging him to ask Erik to reconsider and premiere his next opera here.

"Signor Khan?" a voice from behind him said. It was the secretary of the managers, papers in her hands. She spoke English well, her accent was only slight. "Excuse me, the managers are getting a bit nervous; they would like to know if you have had any success."

Nadir sighed and put his telephone into the pocket of his jacket. "As much success as I could have hoped for, Isabella. Erik sends his regards… and a whole lot of demands."

The secretary smiled. "He is a rather unusual composer, I admit, but I have heard some of his works and they are amazing. It must be amazing to be working with such a talented musician."

This time, Nadir bit back the sigh. This woman had no idea.


	14. Chapter 14

After a rather long week, here is your dose of this phic. Oh, and I think no one needs any explanations as for the second scene of the phic, but still, I thought it was a nice Leroux touch. One of the many things I adore about Leroux is that he only reveals as much as he needs to people and turns the narrative into something completely different for the sake of saying nothing that would ruin the story for you.

Enough said. ;-P

X X X

**Chapter 14**

X X X X

For the rest of the week, Christine was immersed in her work. She wasn't very keen to face Raoul about having to cancel the weekend together, so she decided to leave it to Friday… which did nothing good for her conscience. Meg seemed strangely distant throughout the week and she was faced with a slight surprise on Wednesday, about an hour before she was going to hand over her finished article to Lefévre. Around midday, Lefévre himself stopped by – a surprising thing, considering the fact that the boss barely ever ventured to the offices or cubicles of the "little people". Christine, being the top worker, was probably an exception.

She thought it was Meg at first and was eternally glad that she didn't snap at "Meg" once it turned out to be her boss. He seemed to be in a quite normal grumpy mood and didn't cheer up much even as he entered and Christine smiled in welcome.

"I see you've taken a liking to the new office, Miss Daaé." He noted, observing how she had lined up her things and carefully organized her table within the hour. He didn't wait for her answer, however, and quickly sat down on the spare chair she had in there. From this, Christine saw that their conversation was going to be about work. "I'm here about the article you have on that composer, Erik."

Christine nodded and also sat down, "I have it ready, I was going to hand it to you after I finished today's work. I've got new ideas for the political section, a synopsis of terrorism – what it wants to achieve, the ideology… most people don't know these things."

"That is all well and good, but I'm here because of other things." The boss said in a very business-like voice that put Christine in her place unintentionally. Lefévre leaned forward a bit, as if this was a secret that no one but her could here and there were dozens of eavesdroppers within the room. "The management of Covent Garden has called and requested a meeting with you."

Christine frowned. "Why? I did everything according to procedure, they had no trouble with me, I don't know what…"

"No, no, not about that. They were very pleased with you, which is the reason they were calling, at least partially. They seem to have a bit of a problem with the press. Namely, _the Sun_."

"Joe Buquet again?" Christine asked, frustrated. Lefévre raised a thick eyebrow suspiciously and Christine felt color rush to her cheeks. "Raoul de Chagny is an old friend of mine and he's one of the patrons. He told me that they've had some trouble with Buquet´s pestering."

Lefévre´s eyes showed that he had comprehended a bit more than she wanted him to, but he didn't comment on anything. Instead, he almost acted as if she had said nothing and continued. "Buquet seems to want to demonize this whole collaboration between the opera house and the composer, simply because of his eccentricity. Sensations like this would be front-page material for them and Buquet has been searching high and low for anything that would support his theory of the hidden evil"

Christine nodded. Buquet was famous for this theory – he claimed that everyone who had something to keep a secret had some kind of evil reason for it or some scheme that they were plotting. Privacy meant nothing to him; he was out for scandals and specialized in what he called the unmasking of fiends. _That guy had read one too many Marvel comic books. _

"So what can I do?" Christine asked, "I can't persuade Buquet to stop his witch hunts, if that's what you're suggesting."

"The only thing that would stop Buquet is prison. But no, they want to make an official statement, which is where you come in – they have been pleased with your professionalism and thus want you to be the one to get their words to the press. You'll have to endure both of them and perhaps the secretary and the patrons as well," Lefévre continued and Christine flushed deeper, "but I believe you can handle it and it will be worthwhile. They want you specifically, this Friday, at 12:30."

Christine nodded enthusiastically. "Very well, I'll do it. It shouldn't be a problem. Seems that the opera house got very popular all of a sudden."

"Don't even mention that to me, Miss Daaé." Lefévre scoffed as he got to his feet, "These artistic types think they rule the world. Best to keep a distance from them, they might contaminate us all. Good day to you."

X X X

Christine scratched her chin with the pen she was holding. It was Thursday evening, she was at home, having already checked upon Mrs. Valerius, and she was suffering from writer's block. She had gotten the insanely brilliant idea of writing down something of her own creation again – not for work, but for her own pleasure, as a writer – and now she had no idea how to continue. Reading _the Raven_ before attempting to write something in the style of the plays of _Commedia dell´arte _didn't seem such a good idea, looking back, she thought, and threw the pen on her bed.

Her phone rang unexpectedly and the first enthusiastic tones of her favorite monet brought her out of the grumpy mood somewhat. She was hoping that it wasn't Raoul, but she had told him she would be busy this week. The strange thing was, tonight was the first night Erik hadn't called her. It was always strange to sing with the phone turned on and listening to Erik's voice through it. The golden purity of his voice never wavered, despite the mechanical influence of the phone. And she sang _piano, piano pianissimo _at times, because she didn't want to anger the neighbors. Not to mention that it was much harder to sing quietly than loudly, but she was semi-proud of herself.

Perhaps it was the absence of the lesson that had driven her to read the dark poetry, she mused. Mentally, she slapped herself a moment later. _You sound like Meg now. Next time you'll start daydreaming about Erik. _She bit back a small laugh. All in all, she thought she was to be commended for not daydreaming about him. Most of the women she knew would probably melt upon hearing him say a word. _Well, most women would faint before he could speak simply because he's actually nearby._

The phone continued ringing and already began the first line of the monet. _Exsultate, jubilate! O vos animae beatae! _Christine marched into the living room where she had left it and quickly gazed at the display. It wasn't Raoul or Erik… not even Meg… it was Jammes, which meant it had to be about work.

"Jammes, it's 9 p.m., what's going on?" she asked once she brought the phone to her ear and mouth.

"Holy cricket, Chris, where are you!" Jammes demanded, "There's one hell of acommotion, we've got front-page material! Lef says you're to get to Covent Garden right now!"

"What's this about?" Christine asked, ignoring the secretary's tone.

"BBC´s not giving their news report yet? Good for us, then – we've got a suicide." Jammes explained briefly, "Lef is already there personally, but he wants you too."

Christine tensed as Jammes hung up the phone without another word. Suicide. The very word was disturbing. She pocketed the phone and thanked God that she hadn't changed into her nightclothes yet. Quickly, she grabbed her coat and almost forgot her keys and her purse, being in such a hurry. Once her apartment was safely locked, she darted out of the building and into her car. She still didn't fully believe what Jammes had told her, even though she knew Jammes wasn't one to play such weird and cruel pranks. Besides, it did sound serious. It could be an attempt at a date with Raoul set up by Meg, at the very worst.

When she arrived, she saw that it wasn't so. She stepped out of the car and stared at the bright lights ahead of her for a moment. it wasn't a commercial or any kind of spotlight, however… Christine met a very gruff looking Lefévre at the door when the police tried to stop her from entering and the two of them got in pretty easily. Christine must have looked pretty quizzical, because Lefévre began explaining at once.

"Some stagehand found the body after the last of the audiences left, during the "clean-up". No one moved it, there was no need to check the pulse or anything, he was turning blue by the time anyone got there. Clean work, it was a hanging – one of the ropes from backstage, probably. Motive is questionable thus far, but I can tell you, it doesn't surprise me that much." Lefévre smiled grimly, "Buquet was always a bit of a nut. Guess he hung himself to make the front page, if he couldn't write it."

Christine winced and stopped, looking at her boss. "Joe Buquet hung himself here?"

Lefévre nodded. "Apparently, since his body was found. If it weren't so brutal, I'd say good riddance, but it's pretty nasty. It will be front-page tomorrow, though, so we'll have a night shift, it seems. You can take Monday off for this, Miss Daaé, I'm sorry to disturb you this late at night, but you wanted serious subjects – well, here you have it."

Under different circumstances, she might have laughed a bit, but Christine felt very grim at the moment. there was a whirl of activity all around them and she didn't even notice that they had already reached the scene of the "crime". She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach, hard, when she saw the limp body hanging from the railings of the stairs backstage. The rope was tied almost too neatly and skillfully, as she noticed once she overcame the horrible sickening sensation. But it clearly _was_ Joe Buquet, still in his cheap suit, his bag thrown below him, as if he had been gripping it before he had hung himself.

Christine bit her lip and looked at Lefévre, who was watching her for a reaction. "I need to make a phone call." She said flatly.

Two minutes later, she was pacing in the office of the managers. Lefévre had left her alone, since he still needed to talk to the managers and perhaps to the police about this. Once the corpse was out of sight, Christine relaxed slightly, but she didn't dare open the window here, since she didn't want anyone to overhear her, even though she thought it was just her paranoia. After all, this night wasn't about her phone calls – there was a completely new spectacle at the opera house, away from the stage.

She stretched her hands a bit, taking deep breaths before taking her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed the number she had put into her address book under the initials AOM with a certain degree of happiness. Now, however, she kept counting to 10 in her head to calm herself. She waited several beeps before hanging up. A bit frustrated, she paced a bit and then dialed the number again, silently willing him to pick it up. She didn't even know why he was the first person that came to her mind to call, but she knew that Erik definitely had to know about this.

On the third attempt, she was successful.

"Erik, it's Christine." She quickly said, hoping that it was indeed him and that he had heard her. "There's been a great commotion at Covent Garden, apparently a guy from _the Sun_ had hung himself here, there are policemen all around…"

"Calm yourself." She fell silent at once at the commanding tone, like a trained pupil. "There is no need to panic or slip into hysterics. I thank you for the information, mademoiselle, but I wonder why I was the person you have chosen to call about this immediately."

In her haste, Christine ignored the last word. "I wanted to make sure…" _Make sure of what? _"That you're alright. You said you'd be returning around Friday or so and I was just… worried, I guess. I don't really know. I'm sorry, it's just… I'm a bit out of my mind right now. This whole night has been strange."

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line. "I'm… not one for words of comfort, but try not to get very emotional about what you have seen. It happens to most people when they see a corpse for the first time." Erik said it with a cool indifference, as though he himself had studied the effects of corpses on inexperienced people. "Why are you at Covent Garden, anyway?" he demanded suddenly.

"I'm a journalist – I get paid for bringing people the news. My boss asked me to come. Besides, I was to have an appointment with the managers tomorrow. I suppose…"

The sound of the door opening interrupted her, but she wasn't able to finish. Raoul almost barged through the door, clearly relieved when he had found her and quickly rushed to embrace her. Christine lowered the hand with her phone, hoping that he wouldn't ask her who she had been talking to.

"Christine, thank goodness I found you, Mr. Lefévre said you were here." He released her slightly, but his hands remained on her shoulders. "Are you alright? I've seen… him. It. It wasn't a pretty sight. I thought it might disturb you." He noticed the phone in her hand.

"I'm okay, Raoul, I just have to finish this call, please?" Christine said, backing out of his reach and turning away from him. Dealing with him now was the last thing she needed. His slightly hurt expression went unnoticed and she quickly returned the phone to her ear. She almost slipped and called him by name. Fortunately, she didn't manage to speak the first sentence.

He had hung up. Christine stared at the phone, a bit dumbstruck, but then a message arrived with a beep. She looked it up and read:

_I see that now you are unafraid, being with our patron. Perhaps some time of separation shall help you determine what is important and what isn't. _

She wasn't even able to stare now. That was it – completely cold and unemotional, no comfort or even an attempt to take her mind off this. Simply the statement that it was over until she would change her priorities. But… she hadn't planned this! There was no revolutionary thought that came to her head, however, and when Raoul touched her shoulder, she didn't react at all.

"Christine?"

It was over.

"Maybe I should take you home."

She wasn't going to hear from him again.

"We can return for your car tomorrow, I'll take you to our house, we have guest rooms ready 24/7."

For how long?

"Come, Christine." Raoul said gently, turning her to him. "We'll go."

She returned to reality at the mention of leaving and shook her head. "I'm here because of work, Raoul; Lefévre wants me to interview these people. This is going to be the biggest event printed tomorrow, if there isn't an earthquake or an attack, this is what is going to be front page. I can't leave now."

"Well, then at least let's leave for France first thing in the morning." He suggested, "You could use some time off and Lefévre said you'll be receiving time off for this."

"What about you? Aren't you needed here?" Christine asked, delaying the moment she would have to answer.

Raoul shrugged. "Phil's already downstairs, he can handle these things just fine. I'm the assistant, he's the boss."

Christine found herself nodding weakly. After all, she had been clearly told that she had to straighten her priorities. But… wouldn't this just make things worse? Wouldn't she just confirm that she was reckless? Then again, how could Erik find out?

She shuddered inwardly. Somehow, she had gotten used to the thought that Erik had eyes everywhere and knew everything, at least everything that took place under the roof of the opera house he was working at. She found such precision admirable, but right now, she was a bit uncertain about whether she liked it or now. Somehow, it made her nervous.

"Raoul," she sighed, "I've been meaning to tell you… I think we might have to cancel the weekend in France. I'm sorry."

"What?" he looked thoroughly disappointed, "Why would we have to do that, Christine? You said you didn't have any work – your boss confirmed it. What's the matter, is something wrong?"

"It's just… I can't leave Mrs. Valerius alone, her arthritis is worse than it has been, she needs someone at her disposal. I go to the grocery store for her things regularly and run a few errands. So you see, I really can't leave her alone. She needs me here." Christine invented quickly. But it wasn't that much of a lie… a white lie, at the very worst.

"Oh. I can understand that." Raoul nodded, but still had a disappointed look in his eyes. "I can understand."

"Raoul, believe me, I really wanted to go…"

The Viscount shook his head. "No, Christine. It's fine. Maybe it was a little forward of me, improper. It's just that I really want to spend some time with you."

"Then come with me to visit Mrs. Valerius tomorrow and we can go to the movies or something in the evening." The people pleaser in her won over. "And we can go skating again on Saturday or, or just go for a walk."

"Christine!" he chuckled slightly and Christine felt somehow relieved that he seemed to be himself again. "I believe you, I trust you. I accept both wonderful invitations." He took a few steps towards her and dropped into an old fashioned bow, taking her hand and kissing it. "It shalt be my greatest pleasure to show thou my love's measure, most gracious lady." Christine felt herself blush slightly again and relax a bit. That was a love declaration if she had ever heard one… and certainly the best one she had heard thus far.

Raoul straightened up and offered her his arm. She completely forgot about the message from Erik, for the time being, even the corpse of Buquet several floors below. This moment was to be savored and nothing was worth worrying over.

Nothing at all.


	15. Chapter 15

Well, everyone knows you people want a little more of Meg and a little less of Raoul, so I skipped Raoul meeting Mrs. V., partly because you wouldn't like it, partly because it wouldn't be moving the story forward at all. I love the combination of flowers I picked, the photos I saw made the two look quite nice together. And the answer to your questions is within this chapter.

PS: I like the little dialogue between Jammes and Meg. They are both a bit silly, but in different ways. And Sorelli will be making a return, don't worry!

X X X

**Chapter 15**

X X X X

Just when Christine assumed that her days would drag on without her voice lessons, they seemed to fly. Work and occasional dates with Raoul and the usual insanities with Meg took up almost all of her time. She was the one writing the Buquet article and it had taken her almost the whole night to finish. Frankly, she was too exhausted to think, let alone wallow in self-pity. But Meg caught her staring into space sometimes while she was talking and kept asking what's wrong. Knowing her friend quite well, Meg understood that Christine was running away from something or trying to forget by devoting herself to her work.

Raoul, meanwhile, continued to be the perfect boyfriend, officially making Christine the envy of all the women in the office when he sent her a bouquet of flowers, a lovely mix of fire lilies and forget-me-nots that made every female that saw them sigh. Christine had been surprised but very flattered to receive them on Wednesday, bringing it home and placing it in her best vase in the living room. During the weekend, they had visited Mrs. Valerius, who had been very happy to meet Raoul.

"Christine used to talk very often about you when she was little." she said, making Christine redden slightly as the elderly woman went to fetch a vase for the camellias she received. _Flowers and good wine_, Christine remembered. _That damned Meg knows everything!_

Friday came at last and Christine found herself counting the minutes until she would be able to go home and await Raoul´s usual call about how her day had been and probably another date idea for the weekend. Last Saturday, it had been the amusement park – Christine had never enjoyed roller coasters before, but with Raoul gripping her hand during the plunges, it seemed to be quite fun after all. This time, it would probably be something equally wild.

There was a knock on the door and Christine called "Come in!" The door opened carefully, revealing a smiling Meg. Today, she was celebrating the new warmer weather with a short striped skirt and a light green blouse. Meg walked towards Christine's desk and dropped a few photos on it, concerning the latest article they were preparing for the next issue.

"There you go, Chris, it's everything." Meg sighed, but grinned. "Am I free to go then, Boss Lady?"

Christine looked amused for a moment, but nodded. "Yeah, I'll handle all the rest, it's just about putting it together now and seeing where the pics should go." She checked her watch. "I think you can, you've got it all covered, plus it's nearly time anyway. Have a great evening with that new guy you've found, Mark, right?"

"Mhm." Meg confirmed, "It might be actually alright. I'll give him a try, but be prepared for a weekend with you, me, and a ton of ice cream. Ciao!" the brunette waved from the door and closed it behind herself.

Christine waved back absent mindedly, already looking at the photos. Another lawsuit concerning junk food companies, but it seemed to be a big one. _At least you don't look like an underfed skeleton. _She looked at her own frail and skinny build. _Even eating nothing but 100 percent sugar all day, every day, wouldn't help. _With a sigh, she continued studying the photos. Most of them were alright, about half would probably get into print. Generally, a routine thing, nothing big, since there were no results and such lawsuits were mostly regular. Just the suspense build-up, it seemed.

Her phone beeped to signify an arrived message. Christine sighed, her concentration broken temporarily and took it from the little red plastic chair on her table it had been sitting in, an old birthday gift from Meg. She fully expected another quasi-Shakespearian message from Raoul, inviting her to some kind of expensive dinner. What she wasn't anticipating was that she would drop the phone a second later, but, fortunately, only on the table. Cursing in a murmur, she retrieved the phone and double checked that she was reading it right.

_Mlle Daaé, I believe I owe you an apology for my judgment of you during our last conversation. The blame lies with me, for I had had a very stressful evening and, in a way, you became the scapegoat. Once more, my sincere apologies. While there is no reason for you to forgive this easily, I can give you a proposal that, as they say, you cannot refuse._

_I've just finished the opera I had told you about and if my calculations are correct, your de Chagny friends will soon have two very frustrated managers around their necks, because_ La Scala_ is making almost desperate offers for a premiere there. My offer to you is this: please accept this apology and my invitation to the premiere (wherever it may take place) in two months – if they are good enough – in my company. In exchange, all I ask of you is to forget about my display of temper. I will be awaiting your answer. Erik_

This worked about as much as two cups of coffee would. For a brief moment, Christine hesitated. True, it was an offer that any reporter would kill for, but she had just about restored some sense of balance in her life… and the tension and the anxiety grew within her again. But then she remembered her singing progress and how nice it had been to relax this way. After all, as Meg put it, what else besides work did she have in her life? Work and Meg and Mrs. V., of course. And… Raoul. Christine bit her lip. She had already lied to him about not being able to go to France with him because of her lessons. But it had been a little white lie… nothing more, nothing really bad.

She looked at the message again. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and she was doubting that, the worker within her screamed. That, and, she really disliked unresolved arguments and bad karma. She reread the last line twice within the span of two seconds and after two more, she was searching for the correct telephone number. Christine stood up from her desk and began pacing around the room, cell phone in hand, searching for a good signal, waiting.

Outside, Meg had been just about to leave when she heard the crash of the telephone. It made her stop for a moment. She frowned to herself. She had, after all, promised to herself that she would find out what was bugging Christine. This might be it, she thought, because it was absolutely impossible for neat, organized Christine to knock something over or start pacing around the room with nervous, hasty steps as she heard her doing now. The brunette looked around. No one within range. Good. Coming closer to the door, she proceeded to do what she did best – eavesdrop.

Meanwhile, Christine finally heard the beeping properly and once it stopped, she didn't even stop to introduce herself or allow anything else to be said. "It's very wicked blackmailing, sir, very wicked indeed, because you know well you're pulling all the strings. You win – I accept, I forgive you."

Her quick speech wasn't interrupted by anything, but she believed she heard some small sigh of relief. "It is good to know that my attempt to apologize hasn't been in vain. It isn't as easy as people might think." Erik's voice said from the other end, far calmer than Christine thought possible. "And it wouldn't be as amusing without a little… back-up, or blackmail, as you so nicely dubbed it." A pause. "It pleases me to hear from you so quickly and to find you in a good mood. Please, let's forget last Thursday ever happened."

Christine nodded to herself. "Dreadful business, that suicide. Was that what upset you so? Negative publicity for the opera house?" she had thought it might, because while people generally like scandals, they also dislike places where people kill themselves.

"No, not really. I wrote an opera that was premiered there, but I am no one's employee. That's my great advantage. And even negative publicity is publicity – I doubt Richard and Moncharmin are too upset about that. Nevertheless, Buquet is one reporter I can do without, so I held back the tears this time."

"When will I see you again?"

"See me?" there was a slight smile in his voice, which brought great relief to Christine, because she had confirmation that today, there would be no temper outbursts. "When did we agree on that?"

Christine laughed slightly. "You know full well what I mean. And besides, how do you intend to have me spend the entire premiere of the new opera in your presence without showing yourself? I understand that you have more than one trick up your sleeve, but still…"

"We will see." Erik interjected, "Perhaps you will see me, eventually. But I intend to remain an enigmatic celebrity – it suits me well."

"Why?" Christine asked, "I never asked that. I used to believe that it really was a marketing move, but you don't need that, your music is amazing and needs no advertising. Why won't you step out of the shadows? Most famous people love the limelight and I can guarantee that you would be in it for a long, long time."

"Indeed." The hint of sarcasm was strange. "I can fully agree with you on that. I hope you have been practicing somewhat, but not too much – some vocal relaxation might have done you good. I'll have to teach you vocal hygiene, as some singers call it, and the most effective tool – salty water. And to answer your first and more relevant question, the answer is: whenever you wish. But your voice sounds tired and I imagine you have a hard day behind you. Therefore, I order you to relax completely this weekend so that you will be fresh and full of energy on Monday, when I will see and hear if this pause has been for the better or the worse."

"Alright." Christine said softly, "I'm glad we resolved this. It's great to be on speaking terms with you again, Erik." She resigned when it came to him using her first name.

"Singing terms, in fact." It signaled the end of their conversation and Christine felt somewhat proud of herself that she had sensed that he was going to hang up before he actually did.

Lowering the phone, she felt a wave of relief pass over her. She had managed to resolve the situation quite professionally. Returning to her desk, she quickly marked the Monday meeting in her online calendar and resumed her work, slightly more cheerful than before. Things were back to nor-… well, back to the way they were in the good old days, she corrected herself and suddenly got the idea that perhaps going to the amusement park again wouldn't be so bad – it would be better than drinking wine that she didn't like much, anyway.

"I spy with my little eye on an eavesdropping midget." Outside of the office, Meg jumped as Jammes appeared behind her with a file within her hands and a grin on her lips.

"Shut it, jamming J." Meg muttered, straightening up and stepping away from the keyhole. "It's my duty to eavesdrop on friends."

"Don't know why one would want to eavesdrop on Miss Perfect Worker. Unless you want to pick up tips… but that's too unlike you, Meggy." Jammes said brightly, helping Meg gather a photo that had slipped from her grasp.

The two of them walked through the offices together, towards the exit – Jammes apparently had something to deliver to another floor – chatting.

"So why the lurking in the shadows? I heard Chris has gotten herself a new man."

Meg nodded. "Yep. The Viscount Raoul de Chagny, God-only-knows-what-number in line for the throne."

"Wow!" Jammes whistled, "And I've been man-less for more than a week! _And_ all the guys I date are upper middle-class at best. Can you believe it? She's a total Mary Sue, Chris is."

"What's a Mary Sue?" Meg frowned.

"Writer's slang, meaning perfect character, loved by all, yadda, yadda, yadda." Jammes rolled her eyes, "Anyway, it suits her, doesn't it? Hey, who knows? She owes us both something, she can set us up with rich guys if she manages to drag her rich guy to the altar. Something good might come from it. You don't have to spy on her."

"Well, considering the fact that I accidentally set her up with Raoul, I don't think I have reasons to spy on her because of that." Meg noted, slightly dryly.

The secretary nodded curtly. "Meg the Pimpster. Anyway, no more time to chat, I gotta take these to Milo before he cracks up. Catcha later."

Meg nodded with an absent-minded smile and headed downstairs while Jammes went up. Meg had heard quite enough – being very, very efficient and skilled when it came to the gentle art of eavesdropping – and had been covering her mouth for a moment when Christine was saying her final goodbyes to the caller. She wouldn't have guessed, not in her wildest paranoid imaginings, that Christine had actually managed to make contact with Erik.

_Erik? As in _the_ Erik? The insanely famous, world-wide successful, probably rich and, with luck, hot composer every magazine that has the slightest sense of style today is writing about and trying to dig up info about? The guy Buquet had been trying to find before he lost it and went boinkers and then to hell for all bad and idiotic people?_

If it wasn't so strangely disturbing that Christine hadn't told her anything, she would have been certain that Jammes had been correct. Nevertheless, while she understood that journalists usually wanted their privacy when it came to front-page material and the people about whom the material was even more so, she couldn't help but notice a much too breathy tone in Christine's voice when she had asked her mysterious stranger when she would see him again. Not even with Raoul did she use that kind of voice.

_Actually… she hasn't used that kind of voice… ever. Not even when speaking of work. _Meg mused. What she had heard wasn't love or anything emotional – it had been a devotion and eagerness of a kid who was about to receive their birthday present and was counting the seconds, guessing what it might be. This, in a way, was very disturbing – Christine had always been utterly professional in interviews. Another thing was, this article had been finished, as far as she knew.

_Only if…_

Meg remembered what Christine had told her more than a week ago and put two and two together. She didn't know whether to smile or what to do.

_Two points for Meg the Detective._

It was so obvious and so logical! She had always known Christine was a maniac for classical music, even if the blonde herself continued denying it. Mrs. Valerius was a valuable source of information. And she remembered another thing the elderly woman had once told her.

_Angel of music… ha!_

Meg jumped down the last two stairs.

_Mystery solved._

That, however, didn't mean that she wouldn't be keeping a close eye on her friend.

X X X

Erik disliked traveling in airplanes most of the time. There was never any avoiding stares, only during rainy days, when it proved a fashion, to be traveling in hooded cloaks. When he had been returning from Italy, however, almost no one paid him any heed. After all, Italians were a strange and slightly eccentric folk, so there had been no problem with him wearing a mask during that travel. He had bought the two seats next to him as well as his, for the sake of privacy. Dealing with the fact that he had to lower himself at times and become part of the crowd had been difficult for him, but he learned to accept the fact that his shadowy existence couldn't separate him from the rest of the world entirely.

Back in England, there was a lot of stormy weather, which pleased him somewhat. He was beginning to like that country – people rarely saw each other's faces, because it rained almost all the time, the streets were filled with fog and mist and shadows. It seemed to be the perfect place for him, or almost perfect. English was no problem, though he rarely needed to speak it, since Nadir, who was, by and large, the only person he needed in terms of business, spoke French fluently, thanks to his tuition.

Then there was Christine.

That night, he had gone to the theater not to watch the atrocious production of _Alceste_, but to see if the effects he had planned for the latest opera would be possible on this stage… and to leave the managers his already prepared letter. His handwriting wasn't one of his best skills, so he had written the letter in a slightly more elegant font on the computer and only signed it with his signature red ink. After about half an hour, he had decided that while there was much room for improvement, if Covent Garden would make a higher offer, he would be able to allow his opera to be performed here, provided they would follow his instructions more closely now.

Then, that man had appeared. Short, plump, in a cheap suit, with mousy brown hair tied in a ponytail and an annoying face. Unfortunately, as Erik hadn't been anticipating the presence of anyone at all in that part of the theater at that current moment, mid-production, he had been caught slightly off-guard.

"Hey! Hey, wait!" the man had called in an eager and thoroughly inelegant voice, quickly running after Erik.

At first, the masked man had had attempted to simply avoid and outrun him, but he proved persistent and got within sight range. Then, when he pulled out that ridiculous camera and took a picture, Erik knew he had to act. One thing was that even if he should outrun the man now, he could return… and he couldn't allow anyone to know the secrets only he knew. And as far as he was concerned, there was only one way to silence the stupid and the persistent.

The Punjab lasso, in the modern ages an archaic but still deadly weapon, was another instrument he could play with a maestro's expertise. He preferred it to messy guns or knives. There had been, inevitably, times in his life where he had to move to defend himself and this was the easiest and quickest way. Never had he been caught… only once and that had been a horrible experience in the long-forgotten past.

Just as Joe Buquet thought with happiness that he had found the right guy and the guy had decided to be reasonable and try to soften him up, a thin, snake-like rope landed around his neck. He didn't have time for last thoughts or any kind of contemplation of life, death or afterlife and even if he had had it, it was doubtful whether he would have used it.

He was dead within three seconds.

Erik retrieved the lasso and returned it into a hidden pocket of his black cloak. There was, however, the matter of the body… and so, the difficult part came, arranging it to make it seem like a suicide. Making sure that he didn't leave fingerprints or any other possible clues leading to his identity wasn't difficult – he had been taught how to survive long ago. He didn't have to be a fugitive anymore.

And then, he had left the theater, not caring to see what would happen soon enough. It was inevitable and he knew that the news would be full of it. But he hadn't anticipated Christine's call when he had returned home. He had no idea what to say to calm her or to console her, but it had been very soothing to hear a friendly voice. The voice of the Viscount, however, brought back irritation, because he wrongly concluded that this meant that she had disobeyed him and still meant to leave for France.

The absence of her lessons and her presence proved both productive and agonizing. He had time to work on his opera, but no inspiration to write more than a scene or two a day. And so, a week later, he decided to swallow pride for a moment and attempt to apologize… but he couldn't, not face-to-face. The blackmail, as Christine had called it, was a vain offer, because he had already designed a wonderful method of teaching her without darkness and without her seeing him at all. But offering to take her to the opera meant, naturally, as she had said, to reveal himself.

And he hated broken promises.

_Perhaps, someday…_ he mused, remembering what he had told her. Yes, perhaps. Thus far, he viewed her as a little ingénue, but now saw what advantages that wonderful naïve nature of hers might bring. Perhaps, someday, once her voice would be finished, once she would have reason to thank him, he would make good on that promise. After all, composing with her around was somehow easier, with the inspiration of her voice.

And her presence was also soothing, the kind words she always had to spare. Having a person so close to him, in a way, was very strange, but not unwelcome. With the exception of Nadir, there were no people in the world he considered friends or family.

Christine Daaé seemed to be a hopeful candidate for the first group.


	16. Chapter 16

Sorry for the wait, guys, but this week has been crazy. Well, this chapter is not exactly Erik-less, but he doesn't make a full appearance. However, applause, please, for the phone call! I don't think something like this has ever been done before, so I thoroughly enjoyed doing it! Anyway, vocal lessons resume in the next chapter.

X X X

Chapter 16

X X X X

Raoul de Chagny was standing in the office of the managers at Covent Garden, his arms crossed, a frown on his handsome face. It was Saturday morning and he had been just about to call Christine to apologize for not calling her on Friday because of an immense workload. And then, he had received a call from Mr. Richard, because, as the manager had said, they had been unable to reach Philip and they had called him several times. The Viscount had explained that his brother was on a business trip in the USA this week and left him in charge of the company.

He noticed that the caller sounded somehow anxious. "Is there a problem, Mr. Richard?" Raoul had asked, pacing a bit around the office in their house – he had gotten up early, as usual, to prepare the work for the next week, so that he would have a free weekend. "Can I help you somehow?"

Within ten minutes, Raoul had been in the car and heading towards Covent Garden. Now, he was listening to very bad news from a Mr. Nadir Khan, an Arabic-looking man with a soft manner of speaking that somehow didn't seem to suit his clearly hardened and experienced face. Raoul could only envy the man's calmness when he was practically telling them that their deal was off – that La Scala had offered a better price and possibly better conditions for the performing of Erik's new and now finished opera, _La principessa dei mendicanti, The Princess of the Beggars, _told them of the contents of this offer, briefly explained what the opera would be about and that if they wished to make a better offer, they had the chance to do so now.

"Damnable, this is damnable!" Moncharmin had cried afterwards, turning away from the others, shaking his head. "Does the man respect nothing, no contract or cooperation!" Mr. Khan remained silent, not meeting the eyes of anyone. Richard had his hands over his face for a moment. Raoul decided to speak up.

"His conditions involve casting someone other than our soloists in the main roles – from what I remember, he isn't content with La Carlotta, Signor Piangi and parts of the corps de ballet, right?" The Iranian nodded, so Raoul continued. "The ballet, we can fix easily, but his demands on our vocalists are too unspecific. We need some kind of display of what he would want – if we don't know what to correct, we cannot correct it."

"We can leave that question open for the moment." Nadir said calmly, "The answer I need is whether or not you will be willing to cooperate…"

"Submit to ridiculous demands is more like it." Moncharmin muttered.

Nadir continued as if he hadn't heard. "… and see what you can do about what Erik wants… fixed. You have an advantage to La Scala, because you have already worked with him, thus you know his requirements and wishes. The main problem, I've been led to believe, is that Ms. Giudicelli is… well, too secure in her position in your theater and Erik would like to see some new, fresh talent in his works. He respects that Ms. Giudicelli has a privileged position here, but he wishes someone else to be cast in his works."

"We cannot do that." Richard shook his head, "Carlotta loves his works and wishes to sing in them. She would cancel her contract with us the moment we would refuse her. And seeing as we have no one to replace her, we really cannot afford to lose her."

Nadir shrugged lightly. "I really can't claim to know much about the professional aspects of music, but…" His telephone vibrated and rang quietly in the pocket of his jacket. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen." He dug into the pocket and pulled out a classy cell phone, one of the latest models. Frowning when he saw the displayed number, Nadir picked it up automatically. "Yes, Erik?"

"Persian, Nadir, if you please. I can safely assume you are surrounded by mindless idiots." Erik's voice said with a business-like sharpness.

"Very well" the Iranian replied, slipping into the other language – his native tongue - easily. From the looks on the faces of the managers and the Viscount de Chagny, it was clear that none of them spoke Persian and were probably wondering how come Erik did. "And yes, I'm at the opera house, if that's what you meant." He knew Erik well enough to be able to tell he was right.

"Their reply?" Erik's voice asked unemotionally without any further introduction.

"They're saying that money and the dancing isn't an issue," Erik made a doubtful sound. "but they don't know how to fix the singing problem; they told me they don't really know what you want."

"Decent singers, of course. If they can afford me, they should be able to afford those quite easily."

"They don't know your personal preferences when it comes to voices and therein lies the problem. Besides, if they show any signs of wanting to replace their diva, she's ready to walk out of here. They don't think they're ready to lose her, it seems. Not until they find another singer, which isn't really possible for them right now, or so they think."

"A dilemma, that, but it isn't my problem." Erik replied coolly, "I cannot do everything in their stead – it's their responsibility to secure proper performers, not mine. The fact that the last one was even premiered was a miracle; I never thought it would be passable under their clumsy lead. Ask them to give their answer. I have no interest in these continuing games."

Nadir sighed quietly and lowered the phone for a moment, turning to the two managers, who were pale, almost as if not breathing. "He wants your answer." he said, switching to English again. "Ms. Giudicelli or his opera. It's your choice."

The managers seemed to be on the verge of despair. And then, Raoul decided to step into things. "May I speak with him?" he asked, approaching Nadir and looking at the phone in the Iranian's hand.

For a moment, Nadir was actually stunned by the boy's nerve. Then he remembered that he was the only one in the room with the slightest idea of what the smallest wrong word might provoke. He looked at the phone and at Raoul again. he nodded, but raised a finger to stop the Viscount from taking the phone. He wanted to make sure Erik was willing to speak with him before handing over the telephone.

"The Viscount de Chagny would like to speak with you." Nadir said carefully into the telephone.

Of all the possible reactions, Nadir hadn't been expecting the natural response of all of the arrogant – laughter. Somehow, it disturbed him more than stony silence. "Very well, I'll hear him out." Erik said in a slightly more cheerful tone. Nadir didn't know what to think of this. Nevertheless, he slowly passed his telephone to Raoul, who took it with a curt nod and frowned almost immediately.

"Sir, it's an honor for me to speak with you at last." Raoul said with politeness, "I'm Raoul de Chagny, one of the patrons here at Covent Garden."

"The honor is entirely yours, Monsieur." Came the indifferent reply with an undertone of cheerfulness Raoul missed. "I know of you, so we might as well skip the pleasantries. Do get to the point, if you please."

Once he heard the first syllable spoken by that strange, unworldly voice, Raoul almost felt as if he had suddenly plunged into ice-cold water. He had met a lot of people during his few years on the Earth and had heard a lot of pleasant voices. Never had one rendered him speechless, however.

"Sir, Covent Garden would regret losing you greatly, but please try to understand our position. We would need a voice sample for what you would like to hear on the stage in your operas, or at least a name, a guess at who might be suitable to replace the current cast. Then, we could try to form a contract with that person. However, thus far, we can do very little. La Carlotta might not be to your liking, but she had many years of experience in professional performing."

"Yes, far too many." Erik noted, "Unless you invent a time machine and bring me Carlotta of at least 10 seasons ago, I can't accept her mutilating my work. The ultimatum is her screeching or my music. You decide."

Inwardly, Raoul sighed. If anything was certain, it was that this man wouldn't take compromises. "When you write another opera, we will be ready for changes." The Viscount said solemnly, "That is, if I might request that you inform us of them beforehand. But currently, I don't really see a way to satisfy everyone. We'll keep Carlotta for now."

"Ah, but what makes you think an offer such as this will come again to your opera house, Monsieur de Chagny? On the other hand, however, I do see reasons to return to merry old England. The Glyndebourne Festival is an attractive spectacle. And Covent Garden is a theater of respect in the eyes of the world… we shall see. I might yet reconsider. Might. We will speak again, for certain."

Raoul nodded to himself. "Very well. Thank you for your time, Monsieur."

He handed the phone back to Nadir, who brought it to his ear, expecting more orders or cheeky comments, but the other end had fallen silent. Erik had hung up. The Iranian looked at the phone with some degree of surprise. Erik never wasted the opportunity to comment on anything. How long was it since he had done anything when it came to the search for Erik? Nadir had never quite given up the hopes of finding his reclusive friend again, even if he would have to wait. With his past gone, he had to find a new purpose in life and thus far, he had been largely successful when it came to his goal – making sure that Erik was better-behaved than he would have been on his own. He had located the masked man, in a way… or vice versa. He was too smart to hope that Erik would slip and accidentally reveal something. Nevertheless, moments such as this left him worried and reminded him why he had agreed to wear classy clothes, travel all around Europe and talk to opera people.

"He said that he would still consider us." Nadir returned his thoughts to the present and realized that Raoul de Chagny was speaking to him as well. "I don't think we can hope for a greater promise from him." The young Viscount said flatly.

The managers both looked at Nadir and the Iranian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Have I not pointed our sufficiently that I don't have the answers you seek and that Erik might change his mind simply because he dislikes the weather here?_ he thought wearily. There was really only one thing to say before the managers would get hysterical. "Well, gentlemen, I believe that concludes our meeting." Nadir said with a respectful nod.

X X X

Compared to the rather eventful beginning of Friday, the rest of Meg´s day proved rather uneventful. The guy she went out with proved to be another of the group of men who found her breasts far more interesting than her. She had no work for the weekend and no plans, it seemed. Watching TV seemed to be a very un-Megish thing to do, so she decided to make good on her promise to occupy Christine for the weekend. On Saturday morning, the first thing she did after crawling out of bed was locating her phone in her messy bedroom and dialing her friend's phone number.

"_Hi, this is Christine Daaé. Currently, I'm either out or far too preoccupied to summon the energy to pick up the phone, so please do me a favor and leave a message after the beep."_

"Pick it up, Chris, I know you're there." Meg commanded lazily, sitting down. "If you don't, I'll have to ramble on. So, here it goes: I have much too free time on my hands at the moment, so I decided to give you the honor of spending it with me. This is going to be a man-free weekend and as soon as I finish rambling for your lovely answering machine, I'm calling Sorelli and maybe even Jammes, if she isn't in one of her cheeky moods. So if you have any objections, I don't care. Kudos!"

And she hung up the phone. Then, a second later, she was picking it up again, calling Sorelli. Unfortunately, she wasn't at home, apparently. Meg had a fine guess about her whereabouts, but decided to leave the teasing for later. She didn't have much time to fetch a quick breakfast before her phone was ringing. Dropping her still hot toast on the table, she went to see who it was; thoroughly unsurprised that it was Christine. Messages like that usually got Christine into a state of panic, which easily meant that she would respond quickly.

"No buts, Chris." Meg said instead of an introduction, retrieving her toast. "Girl power unleashed is the motto of this weekend. Don't tell me you have something better to do, cuz you don't. Nothing beats spending time with Meg the Magnificent."

"Megster, I need rest." Christine whined from the other end of the line, "This has been an exhausting week…"

"Oh, sure it was, Chris. I mean, I'm certain talking to mysterious celebrities like old pals on the phone is quite energy-draining." _Bingo._ Meg thought upon hearing the long silence on the other end of the line. And she didn't even have to "slip" more of the things she knew.

"How-how do you…? Megan Giry, have you been eavesdropping? On _me_?"

"Chris, Chris, Chris. You expected that you'd keep a secret from your dear old Meggie? Think again, girl. Eyes and ears everywhere. Now, need I prod more or will you tell Meg all about how come you have the phone number of probably the most wanted guy in the cultural world these days?"

Christine sighed audibly. "Meg… do you understand the meaning of the word "secret"?"

"If a secret is revealed, it's not a secret anymore." Meg claimed happily, "Now, tell me if I am right - Mrs. V. can back me up - if I say you've been taking vocal lessons." Silence. Meg took it as confirmation. "From _him_?" More silence. "_Him_ as in Erik, surname unknown, talented, famous, reclusive, etc.? Come on, Chris, spill it. You know you can trust me, honey." She said in softer tones. "I care about you and I want to know why you've been so sad-looking for the past week. C'mon."

Christine was silent still, but then exhaled in a manner that made Meg certain that she was giving in. "Please, _please_ don't tell anyone, not Sorelli, not Lef, not your mum, not Raoul… _especially _not Raoul."

_Any particular reasons for that emphasis?_ Meg wanted to ask, but then swallowed the question. Then she remembered that the de Chagnys _were_ the patrons, after all, so they might try to use Christine to get information they could use… and clearly, this wasn't something that could be paraded around as public knowledge.

"I never found him… he found me." Christine explained, "A few days after you dragged me to the stage and made me sing. I heard the most wonderful piano melody. I followed it into a dark room and, well… there he was, playing."

Meg bit back a squeal, but couldn't conceal the smile. "Go on, honey. What does he look like? How old is he?"

"I don't know." This surprised Meg, but the answer was at hand. "He didn't allow me to see him. He asked me to keep the lights turned off and he was sitting too far away for me to see. We were underground, there were no windows. About the age – I'd guess at something over thirty, for sure, not over fifty. But his voice – I've never heard anything like it, Meg. It's like liquid gold in your ears. It's just… angelic, really."

"Hence the nickname connection." Meg added.

"Yes. He… he said that he had heard me sing and that he would answer some of my questions if I would come every day and allow him to teach me to sing. Refusing would be crazy, so I agreed at once and began taking my lessons. He was there every day, like a phantom. But I never saw him, not once. Just his silhouette and his eyes."

"Description, please." "At least six feet tall, slim, very…elegant. His eyes are a bit strange, it's like they change along with his mood. And they're golden yellow. The closest I got to seeing him was when I tripped over a chair and he helped me get up."

"A bit on the unique side, but doesn't sound that bad." Meg commented, "Go on."

"Well, we had a bit of a… fight after the whole suicide thing. He felt that I wasn't being responsible enough." Meg resisted the urge to snort. "But he called yesterday, as you've noticed, and apologized for his temper. And so we made up and… and I'm resuming my lessons on Monday. No dark room this time. But he said something along the lines of that we never agreed that I would see him."

Meg sighed, "If he ever goes public, will you introduce us? Because with this kind of behavior, I can guarantee that he's single and I can also guarantee that this is exactly what every girl within the radius of a hundred miles will jump at once they realize it. Back to the present, however – I swear by my Avon eyeshadows that I won't tell anyone, as much as I love gossip"

Christine laughed, but only a bit. Everyone who ever knew Meg knew well that her eyeshadows were a priority for her. "Alright, I trust you. But I suppose it means that I have to bribe you by eating that ton of ice cream with you and Sorelli, right?"

"Chris, I might be a secret keeper, but I'm also a woman. I need that ice cream! Besides, if you eat it as well, I won't feel so bad after eating it, so everyone's happy! You need the extra weight. Besides, all the opera singers – at least the female ones – are fat ladies in horned helmets screaming weird stuff! I now know what to get you for Christmas, but we have to do something about the fat thing, you know…"

"Are you aware that if I eat so much ice cream, I could get sick and then there would be no lessons for at least a week? And besides, who says I'll have to fit in with opera singers?" Meg rolled her eyes. Sometimes, Christine could be a little too naïve for her own good. The first logical conclusion when Meg heard about the vocal lessons was that Christine's teacher was interested in her voice not because he needed to kill time, but because he saw potential and decided to turn that potential into ability.

_Of course he wants to make you a diva, you little dummy! _Meg thought, _No one works for free!_

"Ten bucks that by the end of the month, he'll ask you to perform in an opera."

For a moment, Christine considered the ridiculousness of the idea. And then… "Deal."


	17. Chapter 17

The REAL chapter 17 this time...

X X X

Chapter 17

X X X X

Meg welcomed her guests with hugs the next day. Sorelli had given Christine a ride, because she had been visiting someone near Richmond and, as she reasoned, it was useless to use two cars when they could save the gas. The summer was raging outside and the annual drought in England was taking its toll on the parks. While Christine was a bit sweaty, Sorelli, her Italian blood prevailing, actually thought it was pretty cold and wore a stylish pullover and jeans. She was in a good mood, having returned from a brief visit in the Netherlands, where one of her prospective clients lived.

"So how are you and Phillip coming along?" Christine asked as Meg closed the door behind them.

Sorelli smiled in a carefree way and tossed her handbag on the nearest chair. "Well, we haven't exactly been talking much lately, if you get my drift, but I'm enjoying it. I think I actually might be taking this relationship, seriously. I mean, honestly, do you think I've yet to find a better guy?"

"Considering he supports your career and not only verbally, the answer is no." Meg said, fetching several glasses and a bottle of mineral water. They would save the ice cream for later. "I swear, I'm jealous of you guys. You sure there isn't another brother left for me?"

"Sorry, Meg." Sorelli sat down, "But I'm sure that there will be loads of rich guys at Christine's grand-scale wedding with Raoul." She smirked a bit when Christine gasped, a bit outraged. "I'm half-convinced you put some kind of chemical into his food, Chrissie, because whenever I talk to him, he mentions you at least once."

"Hey, this was supposed to be a man-free session!" Meg whined, "Besides, you two have semi-stable relationships right now. If you wanna talk about man problems, talk about _my_ man problems."

"And whose fault is it that you go through men faster than through ballet slippers?" Sorelli asked with a mischievous smile. "You never seemed to be one for settling down, Meg, why all the fuss now?"

"What am I to do when you two intend to become boring housewives?" Meg said saucily, earning a glare from Sorelli and a headshake from Christine. "Anyway, enough with the man talk. This is ice cream weekend!"

As soon as Meg said that, she produced a giant packing of chocolate ice cream and three spoons for them. Sorelli and Christine exchanged a worried glance, but took the spoons nevertheless. Meanwhile, Meg raided her DVD drawer and pulled out at least five romantic movies to choose from as a "background" for their time together. Sorelli picked the least sappy one and inserted it into the DVD player.

About fifteen minutes later, a Mexican hat dance melody interrupted that and Sorelli had her phone out at once. Judging by the sudden bright smile and the immediate transformation into a frown on Sorelli´s face, Meg and Christine concluded that it was Philip and that he had bad news to share.

"Please pass me the ice cream, Christine." Sorelli muttered after hanging up.

Meg laughed a bit. "Why the glum look, honey? Man troubles? What did your guy do?"

"They've called him to Rotterdam again for a business meeting. So I'm spending this weekend with you and a bunch of ice cream, it seems."

"That's alright, Sorelli." Christine said sympathetically. "At least you'll know how to deal with man-less-ness. It might prove useful, I had to learn and use that for a long, long time." Her phone also beeped – a message had arrived.

"Don't you dare tell me that you've been invited to a romantic weekend with a certain Viscount!" Sorelli said warningly and Meg sniggered. But the message Christine opened wasn't anything of the sort – it was simply the address of a house in Northwood Hills, along with a time and a very simple signature. E.

"No, no." Christine said quickly and Meg noted the slight panicky undertone as she concealed the phone. "Just work stuff, nothing of interest, really. Raoul´s been really busy recently, he hasn't written me in the last two days, which is a record when it comes to him. He's a sweetheart, but he's a bit overzealous at times. Or… too gallant."

"Indeed, gallant men are weirdos. Or, more likely, all men are weirdos and it's shocking to meet a less weird one." Meg commented, digging into the pile of ice cream with her spoon. "I say stick with the predictable weirdos if you're a beginner and then, once you've had one too many migraines, find yourself a gallant guy and stick with him until you get too bored of the constancy and then start over."

"It would be a good theory if you had only tested it already." Sorelli noted while Christine let out a laugh.

On Sunday, Christine went to visit Mrs. Valerius again, to make sure the older lady had everything she needed. It turned out that her arthritis had gotten a bit worse, so she wasn't able to take long trips, but she was as lively as ever, forbidding Christine from doing any work in the house and then going off to make some lasagna for lunch. Christine, however, couldn't help herself and dusted at least one room while the old lady wasn't looking, cleaned Elvis's cage while the parrot sang _Heartbreak Hotel_ for a change. She also left Mrs. Valerius some money, noticing one of her bills lying around. Christine herself was financially well off and she wanted the same for her guardian.

Raoul called her while she was eating one of the finished cookies while Mrs. Valerius was knitting something, apologizing for not being able to call her in the past few days, explaining that their company had been very active recently and since Philip was away for administrative business, he was practically in charge.

"It's purgatory, really." the Viscount sighed, "And our partnership with the Royal Opera House is also going downhill – Erik has a new opera ready and every opera on the continent is fighting for it. Of course, once the Met hears about it, they might try to put up a fight for it as well. I spoke with him, he kind of promised he would still consider us, but I'm not going to have high hopes."

Christine almost dropped the phone when he said that. "You… spoke with him? With Erik?"

"Oh, yes, I mentioned that, didn't I? I forgot you liked his music. Yes, I spoke with him for a few minutes. Don't worry - I didn't embarrass you or anything." Raoul said, slightly more brightly. "We talked about the changes he would like to see at Covent Garden. Well, I think it went quite well."

But Christine was only half-listening. "And what did he say?" she asked quickly.

"I doubt this would make an interesting article, Christine, so don't get all excited." Raoul noted, clearly smiling. "He said he would consider us and that he might have reasons to return to England. Who knows, we might get the next opera?"

"Well, good luck with that." Christine said, relaxing.

"I'll call you as soon as soon as I can get out of this mess."

"Okay, bye."

"Love you, Christine." She trembled a bit, but didn't answer. She couldn't… if that was what he had expected.

"He seems to be a nice young man, Christine." Mrs. Valerius spoke up, sitting down and taking a cookie herself. "I'm happy for you. I get worried about you, you know, living all on your own."

"I´m more worried about you." Christine said uneasily, "Maybe I should stay with you and help…"

"Oh, no, no, Christine. You go and make your father proud. Continue studying with your Angel." Mrs. Valerius said with a smile.

Christine remembered those words on Monday when she parked her car near a nicely-looking house in Northwood Hills. It was subtle, but a bit more classy than those nearby. She went to knock on the front door, but found it open – clearly, she was expected. She entered and almost immediately found a note, saying that she was to go upstairs and then into the first room on the left.

Once Christine entered the room, she gasped. She couldn't help herself. The high-polished furniture made out of ebony, the beautifully symmetric proportions of the room, the stylish historical furniture … and the paintings! She hadn't seen these works before and, despite their darkness, they had a clear artistic purpose. The whole room was dark, despite the large, almost chandelier-like lamp and the elegantly shaped window. But it wasn't a room one could find dull, because the cream-colored walls themselves were decorated with painted roses that seemed alive.

There were no plants in the room, but it still seemed very organic. The chairs made of dark wood and with red cushions, the desk that was made of the same wood seemed to come straight out of a furniture catalogue. And the dominant aspect of the room, the thing that caught her attention at once, was the magnificent baroque-styled mirror on the farthest wall. It covered almost the entire height of the wall, reflecting her entire figure, which seemed lost in the beautiful room. Its rich golden frame seemed to be hand-made with great detail and attention… the flawless surface of the glass seemed to be a door to a different dimension.

"I take it you like it." Christine turned around sharply at the sound of Erik's voice… but there was no one there. She was still alone in the room. Exhaling, Christine understood. He was hidden somewhere where she couldn't see him and he was using his ventriloquist abilities to project his voice to her. This was what he had meant by not seeing him. He was there, but he wasn't. It made her quite nervous. Somewhere, she knew, his eyes were watching her. The thought made her shiver.

"You are saddened." Erik remarked. "Is something wrong?"

Christine shook her head. "No, no, I just… really hoped that you wouldn't be able to find a way to accomplish this. I suppose it was tremendously naïve of me."

"No, it wasn't. It is understandable. You will find that you must push the line of the impossible a bit further for me, but even I cannot eliminate it entirely. There are things I cannot do, if you will believe it."

She managed a little laugh. "I seriously doubt it. But where have you learned all these incredible things? Are you sure you aren't some supernatural entity?"

"No, I simply have a lot of free time on my hands." Erik's voice said, with a hint of cheerfulness. "And these things all came to me very naturally. That is some compensation for my flaws, I believe."

"What flaws?" Christine asked, curious. Erik always seemed to be a person to whom admitting flaws was difficult… this was surprising. Not to mention that thus far, save for a little pride – which was natural for a man in his position – she hadn't detected any out-of-the-ordinary traits in him.

There was a momentary silence. "Can you not see it?" his voice asked quietly, making it seem all the more ethereal. Christine felt a sudden pang of sadness, which had nothing to do with her current mood. He sounded like a lost child when he said it. "I thought it would be obvious."

"While your reclusive nature is sometimes a bit annoying, I don't think it's that much of a flaw." Christine said simply, "I view you as a person who doesn't think the world has much to offer him, therefore you don't open up to it that much. I can't be the judge of your flaws, Erik – not unless you allow me to see them. And even then, I might not prove to be a good judge."

"All the less reason to give you the need to be a judge." Erik concluded, "Accept my flaws from your point of view for now, Mademoiselle Daaé… perhaps you will need to cling to that point of view once you finally meet me."

"I don't understand." Christine shook her head, "How could me meeting you in person change my perceptions of you?"

A silence. "That is… complicated."

"As are you." Christine couldn't help saying.

To her utter surprise, he let out a laugh of pure childish amusement, and it sounded like little baroque angels laughing while ringing silver bells to announce the dawn of a new day. "_Je suis amusé, vraiment._ I'm truly amused." he repeated in English, "I could teach you French, if you'd like. I prefer it to most others."

"I speak some French." Christine said, still slightly dazed, subconsciously looking around. "Not enough for me to be able to call myself perfect, but it's better than nothing. But I'd gladly accept the offer, thank you."

"Very well, then. I hope you are well-rested for today. We shall see just how far you have gotten."

And so Christine took a deep breath to begin singing. But before she could let out a single sound, she was stopped and told that she wasn't relaxed. Then her throat was closed too much. After several scales, however, she somehow got used to the presence of her invisible teacher and relaxed slightly, thanks to his voice. After the scales, she finally realized that she wasn't being accompanied by a piano, but rather, by a violin, played with an expertise she hadn't heard since her father had died. Then came the two songs they had practiced and then, as a special surprise, one more scale. When she hit the final note, she sang it as long as her she had any breath left.

"Congratulations," Erik noted smoothly when her lungs finally gave out. "You've just hit a mezzo-forte soprano C without straining your vocal chords."

Christine tried to catch her breath, her face sweaty, as if she had run a mile. "Gre…great…" she breathed, "May I take a break now?"

"Of course, we are finished for today. Take whatever refreshments you will from the kitchen."

Had she had the energy, she would have smiled. Christine pulled out a bottle of mineral water from her bag. "Never underestimate the effects of thirst." She said, still a bit drained, and took a few gulps of water. It seemed to wake her up a bit. "England isn't the sunniest country in the world, but the droughts can be bad."

"I see you're gaining responsibility. Perhaps you'll be able to do some progress on your own. Your next piece is on the desk – I believe you can manage the cavatina." Erik said confidently. "It is one of the more famous pieces of the composer in question – perhaps you will recognize it."

The papers were there, truly, but Christine wasn't certain how come she had overlooked them. There were several, all neatly lying on top of each other, as if the pile had been measured by a ruler. Nevertheless, Christine recognized the name of the character – Rosina – and knew at once that this was a piece from one of the famous Figaros, but she didn't know which. It was a cavatina titled _Una voce poco fa_ with an acceptable range.

"Il Barbiere di Siviglia, The Barber of Seville. Rossini, one of his better works. Rosina is a lyric mezzo soprano by fach, but after you master this, we shall move to _Contro un cor che accende amore_, which is another aria from the same opera, but you'll find it more challenging."

Christine's eyes followed the notes and she began humming the tune quietly. After reading a few lines, she nodded. "I like it. You know, I think I'm beginning to feel like a real singer. This is sung by world-class singers on-stage and now, I'm to study it professionally. It feels… incredible and I think I'm actually getting somewhere."

"Of course you are. You knew how to sing before meeting me – you simply needed some polishing-up. You've been taught before… might I ask by who and why you gave up singing? Had you continued, you could have been a professional performer by now."

Christine sighed a bit, but somehow, didn't feel the need to refuse. After all, he, as an artist, would understand. "My father used to tutor me. I told you he played the violin – well, we had a bit of an act; I used to sing along with him. But then he… he died. Cancer."

"I'm sorry about that." Erik's voice resonated through the room gently.

"There was nothing I could do; I was a kid back then. And then, I just… couldn't do it anymore. I guess I needed time. It's been almost ten years now; I think I can do it now. But not the things he composed… not yet." Christine smiled with a sigh, "He used to tell me that I would be a great diva of the stage and capture the hearts of all. It was a childhood dream – those never come true."

Erik was silent for a long while and Christine was almost worried that he had left. But then, just as she was about to ask if he was still there, he asked abruptly: "What is your favorite opera, Mademoiselle?"

The question caught her by surprise. "I… I don't really know. I listen to many and love almost each of them, but I think… well, I like Rigoletto a lot. Verdi operas are usually a bit too long for my taste, too many repeated phrases, but I adore the end of the first act, the only scene between the Duke and Gilda."

_Good choice… but you don't have enough practice and security in your voice to be Gilda… yet. Within a few months, you will. _"Perhaps you would like to see it performed at Palais Garnier one day." Erik's voice suggested.

"That would be wonderful!" Christine gasped, "Thank you – I haven't seen many operas performed live. Of course, it might not be as much of a surprise as your premiere, but still, I'd really like to see it. Thank you. I just really don't understand why you're being so kind to me."

_Kind? _Erik thought, almost amused. He was being thoroughly selfish, throwing in these offers simply to keep her interested in spending time with him. While she wasn't able to outperform a skilled and experienced prima donna yet, that day was not far away, it seemed. Soon, the mezzo-soprano songs he was giving her would teach her enough technique to start moving into the higher soprano range.

"Then perhaps you could repay the… kindness… as you call it." _By replacing that shrieking disaster who has the nerve to call herself a diva and performing my operas properly._

"How?" Christine asked.

"By focusing on your music, of course." Christine had the slightest suspicion that there was a bit more to his words than he said.


	18. Chapter 18

Well, this was a swift update. Anyway, please correct the Italian if there's anything wrong with it – babelfish isn't entirely reliable when it comes to these things. And Barb – here you have your explanation: Leroux didn't care much about laws of physics ;-)

I'll make an exception about review replied now… if you guys would like it, I can individually reply to your reviews using the new system of this site… just tell me, okay:-)

Mystery Guest – I loved your long review, I'm hoping for a few more in the future.

Soignante – Verdi operas are loooong. They repeat too many lines too many times. I prefer Mozart to almost any other opera composer.

And guys – I would love such an ice-cream spree, I'm pretty much man-less myself at the moment.

X X X

Chapter 18

X X X X

It took three days of hard practicing until Christine mastered her new aria, three days during which, if it was at all possible, Erik became even more demanding and strict than before. However, it was good for something – he has been able to discover that her problem was that she was not putting enough emotion into her singing and since he was very annoyed about that, she began putting a lot more effort into that. The rest of the week was devoted to technique practice and on Sunday, her still invisible tutor declared that she was ready for the next stage of training.

Christine was a bit intimidated by that, but she knew _Mein Herr Marquis_ from _Die Fledermaus_ and recognized it immediately as it was handed… well, as soon as she saw it waiting for her on the usual table. She never truly understood how the papers with the sheet music or how come she was never able to determine where the violin music was coming from, therefore never able to guess where her teacher was.

"This house is amazing." she had commented upon being allowed to see a few of the other rooms.

A month had passed since the beginning of their arrangement and both had been content with the progress Christine was making. They had left the mezzo-soprano songs behind and Christine had moved easily into the soubrette soprano fach, mastering the Laughing Song _Mein Herr Marquis_, the less-known Serpina's aria _A Serpina penserete_ from the opera _La Serva Padrona_ and the more famous aria of Servillia from _La Clemenza di Tito, S'altro che lacrime_. She was growing more confident in the upper notes and Erik was both relieved and irritated that she hadn't attended professional vocal classes before, because her voice might have been ruined and yet, she might have been able to sing coloratura material already.

The rest of their lives was progressing normally – Christine had written several good political articles that earned her praise from Lefévre, had several more dates with Raoul, though he made no suggestion of a trip to France just yet. Meg was back to normal, Philip had returned, so Sorelli was happy and Mrs. Valerius seemed to be a little better. As for Erik, the only thing Christine was aware of was that finally, La Scala managed to get hold of the latest opera after a major fight with Covent Garden and Palais Garnier. Rumor was that the Met was paying close attention as well and would launch a persuasive campaign to get Erik to write an opera for them right after the premiere of this one.

The rest of the house was just as wonderfully designed as her practice room. Each room seemed to be a window to another world, because every wall had a different painting upon it. The walls of the corridors were covered with pictures as well… but she quickly noticed that there wasn't a single photo in the whole house.

"It isn't finished yet. I put much effort into turning an ordinary house into a place where I would feel at home." Erik's voice floated around her. Wherever she moved, the voice seemed to be just near her. "The walls took some time, but I'm pleased with the result."

"You mean you did all of this yourself?" Christine came to a halt in a corridor.

"Of course." The voice said smoothly. "Can you imagine me hiring people and allowing them to invade my home? This is my private domain and as king, I allow no one to enter, save you. Be certain that no one knows that I live here and if someone would find out, I would simply vanish before they would be able to do anything."

"Where did you learn to do all these things?" Christine asked, wide-eyed. He was a prodigy if she ever saw one and there really seemed nothing he couldn't do. It made her wonder all the more why he chose this solitary existence over the fame that would surely await him.

"I have a lot of free time on my hands, I've told you before. And all of this came to me very naturally. There is nothing I cannot do, if I choose to." _Nothing but making my face disappear._ "I suppose that over time, I might choose to sell the house. It was a bargain buy and I can sell it for a much higher price. For now, however, I'm quite content with it. There shall be no new song for today… and don't come tomorrow."

"Why?" This struck her as a surprise – she had never received the command not to come.

"I want you to relax your voice for at least a day, the next piece will be challenging."

As soon as Christine left that day, Erik immediately checked the time, found his cell phone and dialed the number of the management at La Scala.

"_Teatro alla Scala._" The pleasant voice of the secretary said in swift Italian.

"_Desidero parlare con Signor Bocherini._"

"_Posso conoscere a chi sto parlando?_" the secretary asked, clearly a bit shaken by the voice.

"_Signorina, il mio tempo è prezioso e se devo venire alle ripetizioni della mia opera, io ha bisogno della cooperazione."_ Erik said, a bit irritated.

"_Oh, perdono, Signor!" _the secretary said with a small gasp and switched to English at once. "Excuse me, sir, your Italian is perfect, I didn't realize it was you. A moment, please, I will tell him you're calling and connect you."

Within a minute, a deep but slightly comical male voice took over, clearly nervous that he was speaking to the composer himself. "Signor, what a wonderful surprise to hear from you again! We are preparing for your arrival, the rehearsals will start soon, and everything will be just as you wished it."

_Doubtful. _"I am not calling because of rehearsals, Signor Bocherini, but because of another matter. I want to ask you a favor and I assure you that it would be in your best interest to help me with this."

"Of course, Signor Erik!" Bocherini said enthusiastically for obvious reasons. "Whatever it is, if it is within my competence, I will help you gladly!"

"A simple matter." Erik said calmly, ignoring the sucking-up. "A student of mine is in need of a bit of a start in the opera business. Since her voice is still young and not used to the pressure of performing, I would like to see her in a non-coloratura role, preferably lyric or spinto. My request is that you allow her to audition for a part in one of the classical operas and give her a role. I want her to see how it feels to be on the stage and sing. I can safely assure you that the girl is properly trained and you won't be disappointed."

"Of course, of course, but please understand that we will have to audition the Signorina first." Bocherini rambled on, "We have something free right now, one of our sopranos, Graziella Sforza, has left us because of a touring company – she was in several of our productions and we are looking for replacements."

"Very well, I will send her within the week." Erik said, content that it had gone that easily. "Her name is Christine Daaé. Treat her as you would treat me and be certain that you´ll have my gratitude."

"Naturally, Signor! We look forward to the signorina´s arrival already and sincerely hope that you will accompany her or visit us later on."

"_Arrivederci, Signor Bocherini._" Erik finished the phone call before the Italian could ramble on and hung up. The next person on his call list was Nadir, who was still in Italy, now that Erik had agreed to premiere his opera at La Scala.

"Nadir, I have work for you." Erik said instead of an introduction.

"And hello to you too, my friend. I would very much appreciate if you would just come here yourself, it would save us both a lot of trouble." Nadir´s voice replied gruffly. "They´ve all but forced me to come see a Verdi opera called _Il Trovatore_ here. they seem to think that that would be the best way to get me on their side."

"You work for me precisely because such despicable tactics don't work on you. But on to business. By the end of next week, I'll send you someone over to you. You will make your utmost priority to watch over this person."

"A person? I'm out of touch for a few days and you suddenly become sociable?" Nadir chuckled briefly.

"Not the slightest, but I want you to accompany her and make certain nothing happens to her."

"_Her_?" Nadir asked, sounding stupefied. "Am I hearing this right? And who is this mystery lady of yours I am supposed to meet? Don't tell me…"

"Perhaps I should not." The interjection was sharper than Nadir would have anticipated. "Unfortunately, you are the only one I can entrust with this task. You know yourself that the national sport of the Italians is to rob tourists. I cannot be at her side at all times and if something happens to my student, you will answer to me, old friend. You are a daroga for me – chasing her shouldn't be too difficult. I assume you understand just how much confidence I am placing into you right now."

"Should I ask what this is supposed to mean or rather remain silent? No, don't answer that question – I want to ask about everything. How come you have a student now? A student of what? And does she know of your… secret?"

"She knows nothing and it will remain that way. And she is a singer – she is coming to La Scala to audition. The details are unimportant."

"But how do you teach her?" Nadir prodded, "And how come she agreed to whatever bizarre arrangement you made?"

"No more questions, Nadir, they tire me. Simply do as I say, as usual, and everything will be alright."

"At least I know you haven't changed." Nadir commented, "I'll take care of your protégé, just tell me when she arrives. You don't have to worry about her, I'll protect her from those manager sharks and the resident prima donnas."

X X X X

Next week, when Christine was boarding a plane to Milan, she was wondering exactly how come Meg seemed to be able to predict what was going to happen with such stunning acurancy. She had received the news from Erik a day before, after their lesson and thus had had no chance to object – her flight ticket was already ready, as were her audition pieces, which they had practiced – Servillia, Adele, Rosina and a new and less famous aria from _La Finta Giardiniera, _the Act 2 _Vorrei punirti indegno_ sung by Arminda, which they had practiced that week.

In short, she wasn't allowed a chance to object.

Everything was taken care of, since it was the weekend and she would be going there only for a day or two. It was a morning flight and otherwise quite comfortable… save for the fact that it had been such a surprise that it had rendered her speechless. However, she did as Erik asked – there was no harm in doing so, she knew, because she was absolutely certain that she had no chance whatsoever to win the audition. Her only reason for trying was to please her tutor, since he had put such faith in her.

The midday warm breeze welcomed her to Italy and she was just as surprised to see Nadir Khan waiting for her as he was surprised to see her. The Iranian had a good memory and remembered her as one of the reporters from the opening night of _La Grue. _Christine, also recognizing him, approached him as well.

"Mr. Khan?" Christine asked, with a slight surprised laugh.

"You must be… Erik´s student?" Nadir asked, surprised, "Miss…?"

"Yes, I'm Christine Daaé." she said, shaking his hand. "I didn't know Erik´s manager himself would be waiting for me here."

"I had no idea until Erik´s call yesterday. I remember you from Covent Garden, I didn't know you were his new student. Actually, I had no idea he had a student at all before yesterday. But I'm not his manager, not in the way you mean it. You see, managers usually get to have a say in their client´s business." Nadir said wryly. "I'm more of a public representative than anything. I'm pleased to meet you nonetheless."

They picked up Christine´s suitcase and headed towards the airport exit, checking out and finding a car Nadir had rented, as Erik had advised him. They put her suitcase on the backseat and secured it, then headed towards their hotel. There was a few minutes of awkward silence before Nadir slowly began asking the questions that have been circling through his mind for some time.

"So… might I ask how you met Erik?"

"Oh." Christine smiled. "Complicated story. Let´s say that I didn't really have much of a choice." Nadir seemed to pale a bit, so she quickly added: "I mean I got an offer I couldn't really refuse. He offered me lessons and an interview. Of course, he didn't really mention that he intended to send me to Milan to audition for an opera."

Nadir regained a bit of his color and almost managed a smile. "Yes, well, Erik tends to take control of everything and forget to tell us ordinary human beings that that he has something planned. You will get used to it, over time."

"Hopefully." Christine said, also smiling. "And how did you get to know him? He never spoke much about that… anything, to tell the truth."

"I don't know how much I should tell you." The Iranian said uncertainly, turning around a corner. "Erik being his reclusive self, I doubt he would want his past become a cantina tale. Besides, it´s a past I myself prefer to forget. It happened a long time ago."

Christine nodded, looking down. "Alright. I just wanted to know… I was curious."

"It´s natural, I guess. One doesn't meet a man like Erik every day…"

"Who´s talking about meeting him?" Christine sighed, "I´ve never even seen him yet. It´s just his voice all the time."

"Ah." Nadir nodded, somewhat relieved. He was also glad that he didn't have the chance to continue speaking, because he had been about to remark about the mask. "You mustn't be too intimidated by that. Erik loves to show off his little tricks. He is pretty childlike about that, so you´ll simply have to get used to it if you want to coexist with him peacefully."

Christine laughed. "How do you coexist with him?"

"That´s just it – I keep trying to persuade him to show up and meet me, but he keeps refusing. Wait, refusing? Playing cat and mouse is more like it. And Erik is far too clever a mouse to allow me to find him. The farthest I got to him was that he actually spoke with me and offered me this job – without meeting me, of course. Right now, I'm laying low and trying to coax him into starting to play nice."

"Doesn't he play nice?"

"He might, with you." The Iranian noted with a shrug, but didn't continue elaborating that thought. They drove on in silence until they reached the hotel. They lingered in the resident café after taking her suitcase to her room, talking a bit about the latest opera.

Christine´s audition was that very day and, as per Erik´s request, Nadir went with her. Seeing La Scala live for the first time was almost more than Christine´s eyes could handle – she kept wishing she had at least four eyes to see everything she wanted to see. It was a unique sight and had Nadir not been with her, she would probably have lingered for at least half an hour to simply watch the details of the interior. Nevertheless, Nadir ushered her to the offices of the managers and her thoughts turned to what she was about to attempt to do.

Nadir greeted the secretary, a pretty dark-haired woman, who went to hail her boss immediately. Signor Bocherini, as he was introduced to her, was a middle aged short thin man with a surprisingly deep voice that somehow didn't suit him. He shook her hand enthusiastically when Nadir introduced her and spoke a strongly accented English.

"Welcome, Signorina, welcome, it is a great honor for us to receive a student of Signor Erik. He spoke most highly of you, so I imagine you have something special prepared for us. If you would please follow me to our opera practice room. Signor Khan, if you wish to come as well, we would be honored."

Christine looked at Nadir, who nodded and thus they followed Bocherini downstairs to the opera practice room, where a young greek-looking woman was playing a swift melody on the piano skillfully. She stopped at once when they entered, stood up and smiled, nodding at the Bocherini and his companions.

"My friends, this is signora Odessa Pegeen, our top pianist. She will accompany you on the piano during your audtion." The conductor arrived a moment later. "And this is signor Gaetano Lopardi, out chief conductor. He will supervise your audition from the musician point of view."

Christine nodded nervously and walked towards the piano, giving a copy of the sheet music to Odessa. She spared a glance at Nadir, but he was looking the other way. Bocherini and Lopardi sat down on the free chairs in the room – Nadir remained standing – and they signaled to the two women to begin. Christine took a deep breath and nodded to Odessa, who smiled brilliantly and began a basic warm-up. Christine managed to get up to a slightly weaker high C, but she hit it, ultimately. Then, she began with Rosina, Servillia, then Arminda and, lastly, Adele.

No one spoke throughout the audition, until Christine ultimately stopped singing and signaled that she was really done. Afterwards, Lopardi nodded sympathetically and stood up, politely asking Pegeen to allow him to take over the piano.

"One more scale, please, Signorina." He said and began playing a quick exercise. Christine sang and this time, managed to steady her voice on the high C for a while. Then, the conductor stopped playing and closed the lid of the piano. "There certainly is material to work with there. Since you are here for hands-on practice for now, I would suggest some smaller role, nothing too difficult yet."

"What have we got open?" Bocherini asked, looking at his conductor an attempting to conceal the surprise and clear joy that Erik had chosen them for Christine´s debut.

"I´d suggest _Don Carlos_, we have the five act version and Tebaldo wouldn't be a bad role as a start. It´s a page of the queen, but he has solo lines and sings along with Princess Eboli in the famous Song of the Veil aria, _Nei giardin del bello_." Lopardi said, looking at Christine. "It isn't a major or vocally demanding part, but it´s a needed part. Then, once you get the right feeling and steady yourself in the higher notes, I see no problem with you singing the female lead in that opera, Queen Elisabetta. It´s a spinto part, but with work, you will be able to do it."

Nadir was the only one silent when it came to praise and kept looking at Christine as if he had seen her for the first time. he had only heard one voice with a similar quality to it before and that was Erik´s. his telephone vibrated in his pocket, so he took it out and left the room for the moment.

_Speak of the devil…_

"How did she do?" Erik asked, ignoring introductions, as usual.

"Their eyes nearly fell out." Nadir commented dryly. "As I'm certain you knew would happen. She got a part in _Don Carlos_, she´s singing Tebaldo."

There was a moment´s silence on the other end. "The _pageboy_? They gave my student not a secondary, but a _minor_ role? After hearing her sing?" There was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

"You said you wanted her to have a smaller role…"

"But a role of notice! At least a soubrette part!" _As if it was my fault._ Nadir thought darkly. "If she accepts, it´s her business. I wanted her to sing a song in front of people, not the five lines a pageboy has in an opera." And Erik hung up.

Nadir could only shake his head. Perhaps he had gained an ally in the search for Erik, however, because Christine Daaé seemed as curious about the masked man as he was about his whereabouts. And somehow, Nadir got the distinct feeling that the little mademoiselle might be more successful in the search.


	19. Chapter 19

(applause, cheers and trumpets) (smoke and fireworks, Zerb appears out of nowhere) Hi, people! (waves) After 5 weeks, four in England, 1 spent recovering from the ten hour wait at the airport; I'm back with a fresh chapter! Whoo-hoo! Anyway, I needed to make some kind of filler-changing chapter for now, but I promise the action returns in the next one. And, of course, soon (sooner than I thought), we'll get to the part you've all been waiting for.

P.S. More on Erik's past coming up soon!

X X X

**Chapter 19**

X X X X

Christine fell asleep on the plane back home, exhausted. The flight had been delayed and it was already six pm by the time she bade farewell to Nadir after he helped her with her luggage. Four hours later – though it was only nine in London, due to the time zones, her phone rang immediately and she saw, without any real surprise, that Erik was calling her. Nadir had warned her this might happen and they had a rather amusing conversation about ways to answer Erik's questions and demands without risking a show of temper with which they both had their experiences.

"Nadir has told me about the result of your audition." Erik blurted out instead of an introduction the moment she pressed the "yes" button on her phone.

Christine woke up at once, partially because she was always nervous when speaking with him, but also because… "You don't sound pleased." She said anxiously.

"No, I am not. They offer you the smallest semi-solo part in the opera… and you accept it immediately. No, that isn't satisfactory, Mademoiselle, not at all."

"But you said…"

"I _know_ what I said and it was that I would secure you a role in an opera. But a role that would help you get noticed. A role that will show the, to say it politely, idiots who believe that talent isn't better than years behind you that your voice is unique and deserves another audition, another role." Erik spoke in a semi-angry hiss that sent a shiver through Christine. This wasn't the kind of reaction she would have expected.

She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to have done something you don't approve of, but I didn't know this was your opinion."

"It's of no consequence." Erik said smoothly but coldly. "I have called the theatre and told them my opinion on this atrocity of a choice. They have agreed on my choice to cast you as Barbarina in Mozart's Figaro." Somehow, Christine doubted they had much choice in the matter. "Acts 3 and 4 only, one solo. I considered suggesting you for Cherubino, since you seem to be fond of pants roles, but that might have proven to be too much pressure and require too much time. We shall start with "_L´ho perduta" _at our next lesson."

For a moment, she was speechless. Then she remembered once more who she was talking to and shook off her surprise professionally. "Might I just remind you that I have a job and a family here?" she asked, "Do you believe that I can – no, that I _will_ – throw it away simply for rehearsals for an opera, which…"

"Which might not matter?" Erik asked, with a strange patience. "Mademoiselle Daaé, are you truly under the impression that I would be investing this much time and effort into your tutelage in case I didn't see any potential or progress? I shall be frank with you: you have a talent that shouldn't be wasted. You needn't be concerned about material needs."

Christine bit back a sigh, knowing that it was useless to argue, despite her concerns. She was beginning to get the impression that Erik didn't really live in the real world most of the time. As a journalist, she saw all too much of that world.

"Alright, then." she said, "I agreed that I would try the opera once. I don't really have much of a choice, do I? You could vanish on me again anytime you wished."

"It's the right choice, my dear." There was an unmistakable note of triumph and growing cheerfulness in his voice. "Don't bother with a taxi – one will be waiting for you in front of the airport, it has all been paid for."

"Thank you." Christine said, surprised, but not that shocked. Erik really was quite serious about her not needing to concern herself with her financial status, it seemed.

"That goes without saying. I imagine you're tired and I want you completely refreshed tomorrow. We'll be dropping Arminda from your repertoire and go through Rosina again, perhaps dropping that as well. Now go and rest. We shall speak tomorrow, in the afternoon. Goodnight."

X X X

"You look like a zombie today, Chris."

Christine looked up from the coffee machine to spare Meg´s beaming face a scowl. She hadn't managed to get much sleep since arriving back home and Meg, who could do with one hour of sleep per night, obviously felt the urge to remind her of that. She decided not to reply, but rather take a sip of her mocha. Meanwhile, the brunette sat down on the nearest desk and observed her friend, still smiling.

"Busy night?"

Christine shook her head. "Long flight home."

"Oh, yeah. The trip you mentioned. Rome, was it?" Meg asked, trying to remember.

"No, Milan." Christine corrected her. "_La Scala _got the contract for the latest opera; I went to check it out."

Meg nodded. "I remember now. But the question remains: was it because of your own personal curiosity or because a certain someone sent you and another certain someone is about to be ten pounds richer?" she asked, dropping her voice slightly. Christine couldn't even summon the will to glare at her. It was too exhausting. And Meg gathered the conclusion easily, since there were no outward objections. "Ah, yes. Trust Meg to read men's souls, Chris. Now you owe me an invitation to lunch to the Italian restaurant round the corner. Passing that over, however – should I be asking for an autograph while I still have the time and space?"

"Ha, ha, ha." Christine said in a bored fashion. "Yes, I owe you that lunch."

"Aren't you happy, honey?" Meg asked, her cheerfulness dropping a bit. "Remember that most people – be it writers or not – would probably kill to be in your position. Everyone loves to be on the stage, performing… besides, if a famous composer says you've got talent, there's nothing to lose."

Christine sighed. "Meg, I didn't really have a choice in this. If I refuse him anything, he might vanish on me again and this will all have been for nothing. But if I continue with this, eventually, I won't have enough time for Mrs. V., for Raoul, for you and Sorelli. And I don't want that."

"Look, Chris. Know that I support whatever makes you happy one hundred percent. But I suggest you try this. If it works out, then great. If it doesn't, at least you'll have tried it." Meg shrugged. "Besides, I bet Lef will be thrilled when he hears you're doing an inside article about such an event. I mean, if _he," _Christine raised her eyebrows at the strong emphasis, "agreed to meet you in the next six weeks, you'll have great material to write about. But I think you should tell Raoul… maybe not now, but eventually." She added when she saw Christine's expression. "If for nothing else, then because he deserves to know. Relationships with secrets that assault your conscience never work out. Trust me on that."

"You have experience with that?" Christine asked, her laugh turning into a yawn.

"Nope. Movies." Meg said with a shrug, stood up and waked away with a little wave. "Can't meet you today, Chris, Sorelli and I have got ballet class and stuff. I'll call you in the evening and we can go for a drink then."

X X X

Raoul had had a very tiring week. The only good thing was that Phil had returned and thus took some of the burden of running the company from him. Nevertheless, he felt somewhat drained as he drove through the city. He had decided to pay Mrs. Valerius a little visit, since Christine had been so busy during the weekend. Besides, he was actually looking forward to visiting the old lady again. he hadn't known her for that long, but nevertheless, he was glad that despite her father's death, Christine hadn't been on her own all those years.

The thought of Mr. Daaé´s death was a bit chilling. He had liked the man very much and remembered listening to the tales he told with the awe-struck attention of a five-year-old. And when he played his violin – now that was truly something. How Christine had loved it, he remembered. It was surprising that she kept listening to classical music. Raoul thought it had to be the melancholy part of her that clung to it. Nevertheless, he was glad that it hadn't broken her.

Or hadn't it?

Raoul frowned to himself. Christine had certainly changed. Stronger, more world-weary and clearly not really willing to linger on the past, lest it would bring her back to reality and thus bring her down. and then, there was also their relationship. How to define it? He would have been more than glad to call her his girlfriend, but the "his" part would be a bit false. Christine seemed to belong only to her work right now. And whenever he suggested that they get a bit closer to each other, work seemed to overrule that possibility. The sad part was, he would have problems competing with the constant aspects of her life.

He parked and locked his car near the house in Richmond and rang the doorbell, waiting politely. The soft muffed footsteps and the call of "Just a moment!" confirmed to him that the elderly lady was at home. The viscount smiled to himself. Sure enough, within a minute or two, an elderly figure appeared behind the opaque glass of the door and unlocked it slowly, revealing Mrs. Valerius in her, apparently, cooking attire.

"Mr. de Chagny!" she said warmly, smiling in surprise. "Come in, do come in! I wasn't expecting you, dear, you'll have to forgive the mess." Stepping aside for him to enter, she closed the door behind him, immediately resulting in a round of _Poor Boy_ by her musical parrot. She motioned to the sitting room and Raoul thanked her, examining the still singing large parrot, who seemed not to mind his audience at all.

"Tea, dear? Or some food? I was just making a cherry pie for Christine when you dropped by, but I can make her another." Mrs. Valerius called from the kitchen, which fortunately was right next to the room Raoul was in.

"No, no, thank you, Mrs. Valerius, I don't want to trouble you." Raoul called, taking off his jacket and laying it on the nearest chair. "I just thought I would drop by and see how you were doing, talk a bit…"

"About Christine, yes, dear?" Mrs. Valerius called back, returning to the room with a slice of a very tasty-looking pie and a cup of tea. "I'm afraid I don't have any coffee, though you look like you could use some, Mr. de Chagny."

"Please call me Raoul, Mrs. Valerius." The viscount said, instead of arguing. Having been brought up surrounded by women, he knew well that arguing right now would be completely useless.

Mrs. Valerius nodded and went to put away her apron before sitting down in the chair facing his. "Raoul, then. I must say, Christine was completely right about you."

"She spoke of me?" Raoul asked after a sip or two of his tea.

"Oh, yes, she used to speak of you all the time. But since her dear father left us – bless him – she spoke less of anything. Still, I'm very glad that you two were reunited like this." The elderly woman smiled. "She might not say it, but I think she was a little in love with you back then and I didn't think it wore off during those years." Mrs. Valerius said with a small wink and a smile.

Raoul lowered his eyes for a moment, smiling. "That may be mutual. However," he looked up, "I wanted to know how you were this weekend. Christine said that she would be seeing you to the doctor on Saturday and most likely stay and do some housework or shopping for you. I wanted to hold her out, but she didn't want me to."

"Well, Christine was here, yes, but she said she would be very busy." Mrs. Valerius said, slightly concerned. But then, the worry vanished from her face. "I suppose her good genius is simply trying to get the most out of our Christine. One has to be happy for that."

The young Viscount's expression froze for a moment and he analyzed all possible meanings of this statement. However, no miraculous solution came to him, so he simply had to repeat the words as a question begging for an explanation. "Her good genius?"

"Why, her Angel of Music, of course." Mrs. Valerius said, seemingly surprised that Raoul didn't know of this. "He has been giving Christine lessons for the past month, why, every day!"

"What kind of lessons?" Raoul asked, perplexed.

"Singing lessons, of course." Mrs. Valerius said with a smile. "I was very happy to hear it. Christine hadn't sung anything for years – it seemed to pain her, she would always only open and close her mouth when she had to sing anything in church – and then, she told me all of a sudden that she had been visited by the Angel and was taking lessons from him. I was positively delighted."

But Raoul was not. A frown creased his brow and he lapsed back into deep thought. Christine had never mentioned any of this. He would have understood if she would have told him this or just mentioned in passing. Even keeping it from him would be understandable… but why the angel part? The Angel of Music? Of course Raoul remembered the old tale of Little Lotte – he knew that it had been Christine's beloved tale – and he knew of the Angel of Music. But that was… just a tale, nothing more. A bedtime story.

Yet why call a singing instructor the Angel of Music? Did she simply want to cheer up Mrs. Valerius? Did she think this man was that good a musician? Or did she… no, that was absurd. Even Christine couldn't be that naïve, surely. He was just thinking of mad scenarios about her and a man who was… who was…

Shrouded in mystery.

Somehow, he didn't think Christine would wish to speak of this much more, but he hoped that Mrs. Valerius could be able to reveal something more.

"And have you ever met him, this instructor of hers?" he asked seriously, leaning forward.

Mrs. Valerius seemed to think this humorous, because she smiled good-naturedly. "My dear boy, angels appear only to those they deem worthy of it. I will see them soon, when, hopefully, I am in Heaven. But Christine has a gift and now is being rewarded."

Such talk didn't bring Raoul much comfort. It showed only that Christine wasn't keen to give details of this even to those closest to her. What hope would he have of extracting that information from him? Nevertheless, somehow, this talk of angels and secrets was making him slightly uneasy. Whatever she was, Christine was no liar. And if she was, then a very bad one.

_Who else might she have told at least a part of this? _

And after Mrs. Valerius went away to clean the plate and cups, he dialed Sorelli immediately.

"Hi, honey," she cheerfully said into the telephone after picking up. "It's been too long. You need something, Raoul?"

"Hi, Sor. Yeah, I'd like to talk to Meg Giry, could you call her and arrange for her to meet me later today."

"What, Christine isn't your type now?" Sorelli joked.

"No, I actually want to talk to her about Christine. Come on, Sor."

"What would you do without me, Raoul?"


	20. Chapter 20

Since my mom finally finished what she needed to do with the computer, I was able to finish this chapter. The last scene gave me some trouble, so please, bear with me. And review, please!

PS: Chapter 20, whoa… anyway, it's fast-forwarded a bit, I hope you don't mind. I simply couldn't have five more chapters about the same thing.

PPS: I hit a high C today during singing practice! Whoo-hoo! cheers

X X X  
**  
Chapter 20**

X X X X

A pretty surprised, though not displeased Meg Giry met Raoul in St. James´ part later that day, though quickly informed him that she is going to see some play on the West End with her latest "find", so her time was limited to a few hours. Raoul, who hadn't really talked to Christine's best friend before, had to admit that he understood why she had been awarded such a privileged position in her life – the outgoing, bubbly girl was the complete opposite of withdrawn and at times dispassionate Christine.

After the pleasantries and introductions, including the usual comment on the cloudy weather in town, Meg put on a quizzical frown and asked the question which had been bugging her ever since Sorelli asked her to come here and meet Raoul – what did he want from her? More politely worded, of course.

"Well, Meg," Raoul began in a rather concerned manner, "it's about Christine." Meg nodded, unsurprised. "I've visited Mrs. Valerius today and she told me that Christine hadn't visited the entire weekend, despite her assurance to me that she would be very busy helping her guardian."

"Maybe something just got in the way of it, you know Chris." Meg said, shrugging.

"That's just it. Mrs. Valerius mentioned that Christine has been receiving some kind of music lessons for the entire month, but she didn't know too much about it, from what I was able to gather." The Viscount noticed that Meg seemed to tense a little. "If Christine had only withheld this from me, I would have understood, but not telling Mrs. Valerius anything… she kept mentioning something about an angel of music, but that's just an old story of Mr. Daaé´s."

The brunette couldn't hide a giggle, but she grew more serious when she saw that Raoul certainly didn't think it was amusing. "Trust Christine to connect everything with the old stories."

"Yes, but I was sort of hoping that you knew something more about this." he pressed on. "I respect Christine's privacy, but I'm concerned about her. Something about this whole secrecy feels wrong. Please, if you know anything, tell me." Raoul added, seeing that she was slightly uneasy.

"I'm sorry, Mr. de Chagny." Meg said, shaking her head. "Christine is a friend and she didn't want anyone at all to know. I only found out by accident, like you, since Mrs. V. was so happy about the angel and told me like she told you. But until Christine herself decides to tell you – _if_ she decides to tell you – I have to uphold my promise to her. Besides," she smiled slightly, "I don't think you will have to wait much longer."

Raoul sighed slightly. He should have expected this, probably. Meg seemed to understand his disappointment, since she offered a smile, but her lips remained sealed. It was a bit frustrating, so he offered to bribe her by buying her something from the Buckingham palace shop, which was more of a joke than a real offer.

X X X

Christine began working on her articles with truly alarming speed and left office a couple of times before Meg even managed to arrive. Generally, she simply turned off her mobile phone when at home, in order to get some rest. Her visits to Mrs. Valerius were, to her dismay, getting shorter, and she hadn't talked to Raoul for over a week, partially because she was too busy and tired, partially because she didn't really know for how long she would be able to keep this up.

Her "performance" as Barbarina in Figaro was scheduled for three days before the premiere of Erik's opera, but she already felt as if she was going to psychically collapse whenever she thought about it. Unfortunately, neither avoiding it nor not thinking about it was at all possible. With all the time she was spending singing, she thought she might have managed to master the song. But the lessons, now that they were focusing on only one song and ignoring everything else she had ever sung, were almost impossible to endure, even when it was explained to her that the past songs were used to determine what would be best for her voice.

"You have done reasonably well with all of them, but they were far from perfect." Erik's voice had said. This was a "beginner's role", she was educated, but a better one than what she would usually get.

After several weeks of hard effort, practicing each day and, as Meg would say, killing her social life entirely, Erik deemed she had mastered the cavatina perfectly. By then, Christine vowed never to lose a needle when someone gave it to her, for she would most certainly be forced to remember this particular song. Barbarina had only a few more lines in the opera, being present only in parts of act three and four.

The day she had finished all her lines perfectly, including her solo, felt like the day of her salvation.

"Good, mademoiselle." Erik said as she exhaled loudly, sitting down on the nearest chair. He had never once called her by her given name, but Christine learned to live with it. _Just a few more days_, she thought. Just a few more days and she would know everything.

Just a few more days and she might actually get the Pulitzer, if she would work hard enough. And that she would, definitely, because this essay, this article she was about to do would the strangest and probably most difficult thing in her career.

"Tomorrow, you will rest, at least vocally." Erik continued, but Christine's mobile phone interrupted his lecture – she had just turned it on and at once it began ringing.

Casting her surroundings an uneasy look, Christine picked it up, noticing a lot of unanswered calls there. "Hello?"

"Christine, thank god, I finally reached you." Raoul´s voice said worriedly from the phone. "I've been calling for at least two hours and you had your phone turned off."

"Hi, Raoul." Christine said carefully, "You needed something?"

"Yes, I actually did." His voice gained a strange edge. "I haven't seen you for at least two weeks, Christine, and it has been way too long. I want to talk and I want to see you again. I wanted to ask you if we could meet today and go somewhere, I heard there's a concert at the KOKO music venue tonight, we could go there if you'd like."

Christine hesitated, looking around again. but then again, Raoul had been so exceptionally patient with her little excuses about what she needed to do, where she needed to go… and she wanted to go see him, really. And hadn't she mastered her role already?

"Okay, I'm looking forward to it." Christine said, a smile creeping into her voice, despite her slight uneasiness. "When and where?"

"Camden High Street at about eight, if you can make it?"

"All right." she said, "I'll be able to make it. See you then."

"Do make sure that you don't scream like a rabid fan at the concert." Erik commented dryly after she returned the phone to her purse. "You would regret it in the morning."

Christine smiled. "I was afraid you wouldn't approve of me going at all. Last time you heard me agree to go with Raoul somewhere, you were pretty disapproving."

"But back then, you weren't cast in a world-famous opera, were you now?" seeing her get a bit nervous, Erik added, "You will bring down the house, Christine, be assured of that."

"You called me Christine." she said, surprised.

"I know from experience that the best means of distracting people is to be unpredictable." Erik's voice sounded from another direction again, underlining the point. "Your vocal well-being is my utmost priority. When that is assured, you can go wherever you like with that boy of yours."

_That boy._ Christine didn't like the sound of those words, though they were in no way spoken with any negative emotion. She really felt like an instrument Erik was trying to get in tune at times. Or a schoolgirl that needed to be taught everything all over again. It was another thing she needed to learn to live with.

"You realize that in a few days, I won't be forced to guess where you actually are, don't you?" Christine looked around, once again fruitlessly trying to find out where her tutor was actually standing or if he was in the house at all.

"Of course I do, since you insist upon counting the minutes." The voice said, half-annoyed, half-amused. "I must remind you not to expect miracles, however. You might find me very ordinary at heart."

"If you are trying to dissuade me, it won't work." the journalist said firmly, looking at her watch. "I should get going, if I'm to make it in time. Unless, of course, you are willing to answer one of my questions prepared for you right now?"

"You have more questions?" his voice seemed surprised, "I thought I had answered all of your inquiries already."

Christine waved a dismissing hand. "Those were trivial queries, surface questions. A kind of test if the person we're interviewing is interesting enough to make it to round two. And I don't even have to say that each answer you gave made me think of at least three more questions."

"We shall see. Your plane tickets are prepared for you." Christine spotted the envelope on the table almost at once this time, uncaring how things seemed to magically appear and disappear around here. "And be warned: if you render yourself incapable of singing properly within the next few hours I won't be pleased."

That was a more than convincing threat from Christine's point of view.

X X X

She arrived at KOKO on time, having taken the underground, since she was aware that Raoul would probably want to give her a lift home. She appreciated not having to drive once in a while. And he was right – they hadn't seen each other for far too long.

Almost upon arriving at her destination, she spotted him without problems – there weren't many people there yet and Raoul was clearly the only person waiting there. When he saw her, a strangely sad look seemed to pass through his eyes, but Christine thought her eyes, a bit tired from rereading her notes over and over again, were playing tricks on her, since he smiled and warmly kissed her briefly when she came closer.

"I'm glad you could make it, Christine." he said quietly, "I was afraid another week would pass without me seeing you, we were both pretty busy with work."

"Oh, yes. Have you found a new production to substitute the opera you lost?" Christine asked, genuinely interested.

The Viscount, however, didn't seem pleased that they were discussing opera. Or perhaps it had simply been a pain to find the opera. "We have, yes. Carlotta was more than happy to give Richard and Moncharmin her ideas and thus they were forced to inform me. In the end, we picked _Der Rosenkavalier_, since the lead role is a favorite of Carlotta's. It might turn out easier than the whole Erik business. Still, I hope we'll have a chance with his next work." He sighed, but smiled. "Let's not talk about work anymore, Christine. I'm sure you yourself have had loads on your hands lately."

Christine nodded. "Yes, I've been totally immersed in my work recently… I'm sorry that I couldn't spend more time with you. But I mean to make it up to you!" she added, more happily. "A few more days and I'll have much more time for you, Raoul, I swear it!"

Raoul chuckled slightly, finally losing that tinge of sadness he seemed to have had in his voice before. "All right, all right, I believe you. If you would like it, we could have that trip to France sometime soon. We could make ourselves a little holiday. Whenever you want."

"I would love that." Christine replied, "But not yet. I've got a trip to make this weekend."

"Another one?" Seeing Raoul´s frown, Christine felt that she should have bitten her tongue before saying that. "They are overusing you in that job of yours, Christine. You should ask for more money. All you ever do is work. What front-page story are you investigating this time?"

"Oh…" Anxiety crept into her voice. "I'm… well… it's… not actually a… business trip, Raoul."

"Then why are you going? And where?"

Biting her lip, Christine tried to think of a possible way to get out of this. Surely there was a way to turn his attention away from this question – Erik had said that she wasn't to tell anyone and already too many people knew about her disappearances. But Raoul´s eyes seemed to be filled with a determination, waiting for her answer.

"I… can't really tell you, Raoul." She concluded, shaking her head timidly. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Promised to whom? Your Angel of Music?" The bluntness of this question and the certainty of the statement was enough to get a gasp out of Christine. Wide-eyed, she stared at Raoul, slowly comprehending the truth. He knew… there was no coincidence. Someone had told him…

_Meg Giry, you are dead._

"How…?" she tried to ask, but he shook his head.

"It doesn't matter, Christine. I wanted to know why you seemed so keen on avoiding me and what was taking up so much of your time. You could have told me of this, you know I wouldn't have disapproved of any kind of music lessons. I began wondering…" he paused, "Christine, I need an honest answer. Are you really taking singing lessons… or… or…"

"Or what, Raoul?" Christine asked, confused.

He seemed to regret even thinking it when he looked at her face, thus he promptly avoided her eyes. "Or… are you seeing someone else? Because if you are, you should have just told me, Christine, I would have… I would have dealt with it somehow."

Comprehending, Christine let out an outraged noise. "Raoul! How could you have thought I could do something so mean to you, of all people! I care about you, Raoul, I…" she struggled for the words to come out, but they wouldn't. "To doubt me like that! My lessons are just that – lessons! My tutor…"

"Why haven't you told me about this?" Raoul interjected, despite his obvious relief. "I would have supported you entirely, Christine. The Royal Academy of Music has a very good relationship with our opera house. I could have paid for your lessons with the most qualified tutors."

"I know, Raoul." Christine said, gently this time. "But my tutor… he doesn't ask payment of me. Of any kind." She added.

"How come? Who is he?" the Viscount asked, "I don't understand…"

"I don't expect you to, Raoul. But he… well, let me explain. He wishes to remain anonymous. I cannot tell you – or anyone – who he is or anything about him. He is an eccentric man, but he is a wonderful musician and, believe it or not, I didn't come to him for lessons. His payment is the development of my voice."

"Ah. He wants to secure himself a manager's position if you succeed as a singer." Raoul noted.

Christine didn't answer. After so many weeks, she didn't truly know Erik's true intentions, but knew that they dealt with music. Strictly music. Despite their constant and long meetings, there was no breaking the barrier he had around him as a line of defense against strangers. It made her sad to realize this, but eventually, she accepted it. Trying to break it by force would be like running against a brick wall, probably.

"Raoul, the point is, I sing for him and… the rest, you will see next week, if I manage to pull this off. I'll explain things to you. For now, bear with me." she pleaded. "I promise everything will be clear as soon as I return."

His uneasiness, which he couldn't conceal, made Christine sad, but nevertheless, Raoul nodded.


	21. Chapter 21

To my defense, I say only this: I graduate this year and the first week at school was almost unbearable. I didn't have time for anything and right now, I should be writing a twelve page long document in German for my exams. Well, I have a week left to do it, but it is about euthanasia, so I wonder if I'll be eager to jump into that. Anyway, I attempted this one to be a multi point of view chapter.

X X X  
**  
Chapter 21**

X X X X

When Nadir Khan picked up once more Erik's student, whose most mysterious trait was that she truly was a student of Erik's, she seemed far less enthusiastic than she had been before. Indeed, she was chalk-white as she greeted him quietly at the airport in Italy. Since Erik's new opera was to be performed at La Scala, Milan practically became Nadir's second home for the time being as he managed everything in Erik's "absence". Of course there had been problems, but somehow, he fancied he had heard a strange optimism in Erik's voice when they had last talked about the singing, which was, as far as Erik was concerned, merely passable.

Not at all surprised by the sudden change in the casting or Christine's fear of the stage, Nadir attempted to put the matter out of his mind. But something was wrong about this – everything was progressing too fast, even by Erik's standards. He had heard enough to know that the girl could easily outsing many an experienced performer, but she was nevertheless young and had never sung on stage before. A beginner's role, like the one she had agreed to perform, would have been more suitable for her, not one with her own aria, where the entire attention of the audience would be focused on her.

Only half-heartedly did she greet the people at the opera, the managers, everyone else. The rest of the cast was already assembled for a last-minute rehearsal. As Barbarina had only three scenes and limited interaction with other characters, she didn't need much choreography – only to see from where she would enter and where she should leave. She could remember that easily enough, the director told her, and there would always be someone backstage if she couldn't. Christine, pale as ever, only then began wondering about her costume.

"It was delivered several days ago." Someone from the wardrobe department said. "We thought you knew, it was sent by Signor Erik, your teacher."

This news didn't ease Nadir's thoughts one bit. And indeed, the dress was there, prepared. Christine put it on for the final part of the now almost ending rehearsal, but the Iranian rather thought that she had turned a rather delicate shade of green when she noticed the size of the auditorium. Clearly, she hadn't been warned of this.

He decided to stay with her until the beginning of the production and perhaps for a while during it, watching it from backstage.

"Don't be afraid, Miss Daaé." Nadir said to her as the overture strings took off some time later. "Erik wouldn't have ordered them to give you this role if he didn't think you were ready."

It didn't seem to give her any relief as she looked at him. "He is here." she said, "He said he would come and watch me perform. I cannot do this, Mr. Khan! I agreed only because I had no choice. I want to finish my article and if I wouldn't have done this, he would vanish on me!" Desperately, she attempted to show him how much this meant to her.

The vibration in his pocket alerted Nadir to a call. It was Erik, naturally, and without any further ado, he demanded to speak with Christine. The girl, knowing who the caller might be, took the phone with a trembling hand, stood up from her chair and began pacing back and forth.

"Erik, I cannot do this." She said at once, clearly frightened what he would say. "I'm much too scared; please don't make me do this."

And with miraculous soothing gentleness, the voice from the phone gave words of comfort and encouragement that Nadir couldn't decipher, but guessed that that was what they were even as Christine stopped pacing for a moment. He had heard Erik soften his voice to enchant and to trick, but never to soothe. It was, in a way, almost eerie how Christine seemed to lose some of her tension, despite her continuing feeble protests.

"I will surely make a fool out of myself…" she whispered tensely, and Nadir thought he heard a firm no from the other end of the line.

The call ended almost abruptly, leaving Nadir with a calmer and slightly dazed Christine. A dreaminess had replaced her nervousness, she was now quieter than before, hardly paying attention to anything. At least, that was what he believed it was. In Christine's mind, the words and the melody of the song went over and over again, but constantly weaker, overshadowed by the memory of Erik's words to her. Her time to go on stage was some two hours away.

Meanwhile, Nadir assessed the possibilities. Again, Erik was in the very same building. Perhaps now was the chance, the opportunity to discover where. It was too much of a temptation. As for his youthful charge, he could do nothing more to encourage or calm her. And she seemed to be lost in thought. Thus he excused himself politely and went in search of Erik.

_Who else knows you truly, Erik? Not even the girl knows you, not your full array of tricks and schemes._ Nadir thought to himself as he entered the ticket office and asked to be told where Erik sat this night. The lady there was kind enough to tell him and the Iranian quickly set off towards the box. Luxurious and private, it was both – his masked friend's favorite combination.

He fully expected not to find him there. After all, he had tried so many times before. During operas, during breaks, after the performances. No such luck. Nadir knew all too well that Erik might even be in the box and he wouldn't be able to get as much as a glimpse of him. The cleverness of Erik seemed to know no measure. However, he managed to open the door without much problem. The box at first seemed empty, but the Iranian knew better than to assume anything. Erik would never take the front seat, not even in a private box.

"Sit down, Nadir. You wouldn't want to miss _Crudel! Perche finora_. It's a wonderful duet." Erik's voice interjected almost calmly, causing Nadir to jump. Shocked, he collapsed into the nearest chair he could spot, looking away from the stage almost at once to search for Erik. Only after squinting in the darkness did he spot the outline of a dark figure and startling yellow eyes next to the box entrance, sitting on a footstool, apparently.

The Iranian hardly believed his eyes.

"The stage is on the other side, Nadir. Surely you remember that and turn your unflattering stare there." The voice said from the shadows, the catlike eyes narrowing slightly, but his amusement was detectable. "Christine will be on soon."

"After so long, you show yourself to me and this is all you have to say?" The Iranian demanded. "I must speak with you about a thousand things."

"They can wait a few more hours." Erik noted calmly. "Right now, I prefer witnessing my triumph to discussing a long-gone past." His glittering eyes moved to the stage. "The Count is good, a bit on the low side. And if I have my way," Uneasily, Nadir noted that the tone he used said plainly _Which I will_. "The Susanna will be swapping roles with Christine within a few weeks."

"She isn't bad." Nadir managed to say in defense.

A small laugh came from Erik's corner of the box. "No, she isn't, but compared to my young pupil, she sounds like a dying horse." He turned his attention to the stage as Cherubino and Barbarina appeared on the stage, the latter pulling the former cheerfully by the hand, trying hard to look confident and carefree as she spoke her lines, promising that he would be the prettiest girl of all once they would dress him up as one. "She's charming so far. We shall see."

Nadir tried not to say anything, but his anxiousness wouldn't allow him to stay silent. He had to know before doing anything else. "Erik." The eyes turned to him briefly. "By Allah, tell me that you don't harbor feelings for the girl. Swear to me that I'm a fool for thinking that infatuation has claimed your rational mind."

"You're a fool." Erik said gravely, then laughed again, but bitterly. "What would I know of feelings of love, daroga? Especially of love for a woman? And the beautiful mademoiselle is, despite her age, a child at heart. I want to help her, daroga. I find her voice pleasing to my ears and her company refreshing after years of solitude. But she is my student because I would have her voice in my works." As Nadir didn't look entirely convinced or relieved of his suspicions, Erik added: "And what if I was? Do you truly believe that I would harm her? She wouldn't be the first to scream and flee, daroga. You know that well."

The Iranian wanted to say something more, but at that moment, a duet between the Countess and Susanna ended and a choir of girls, including Cherubino, all led by Barbarina, entered the scene, singing, flowers in their hands.

On stage, Christine tried to remember the times she had been to meet Meg in their ballet school and the teacher had scolded them for "improper stage behavior". It had been a drama school of sorts for her. The soprano who sang the Countess reminded her a bit of Sorelli, so it wasn't that difficult to be comfortable when talking to her. Her main problem was that she was to be smiling throughout this entire act, which could look really bad if she remained nervous. Nevertheless, she laid out her plan to marry Cherubino, as the Count had promised her previously, stood to the left with Antonio, her operatic father, as the wedding dancers did their part and waited for the Count to pull her away to silently give her the order to return a pin to Susanna, which was the whole point of her aria – she would lose it and Figaro would return it to her, being filled in on the plot.

The scene changed into a garden and she received the signal to go on stage again, pretending a fruitless search. Her despairing look was convincing, but she herself wasn't so sad anymore. she had survived act three, but that didn't require any singing. This, her only song in the opera, was the key part of her role. She sang a bit absent-mindedly, struggling to remember all of her lessons, looking at the ground as if searching still, but in reality, it was more for avoiding spotting the crowds that were looking at her. When the basso playing Figaro entered the scene, she was relieved, but her ears were drowned in an applause that surprised few who had heard her. Hers wasn't an aria that required applause or was often applauded, but nevertheless she received it, standing there a bit awkwardly.

Relieved, she exited the scene, only to be greeted by a small crowd of speechless soloists that looked at her as if she had fallen out of the sky. After an awkward moment, the soprano singing the Countess gave a shaky little laugh, but said: "It seems I have to watch my back now." with a smile before leaving for the stage with a speechless Susanna.

"This is your first opera role?" the Don Bartolo asked and Christine nodded. "Who in the world taught you to sing like that?"

"It's a very non-standard technique… but it works wonderfully! At least for you. It takes years to sing that well." The only tenor in the group, the Don Basilio, added.

Christine hesitated. "I have been learning how to sing properly only for a few months. My tutor was – is – Monsieur Erik, the…"

"…the famous French composer!" the Cherubino added, beaming at everyone in triumph. "You see, I told you I overheard the managers correctly! Why else would they make such a last-minute addition to the cast?"

"_Si, Viviana, si._" the Don Bartolo waved her away, "You told us. Now go position yourself, you'll miss the beginning of _Pian, pianin._"

"You're on stage before me." Viviana pointed out.

With a quick curse in Italian, Don Bartolo, Don Basilio and Antonio darted away to their designated positions, as Figaro would soon summon them for a brief dialogue. Meanwhile, Christine collapsed into the nearest chair, wiping her forehead briefly. But it seemed that she hadn't done as horribly as she anticipated. She found she missed company now, be it Nadir or Erik, who would tell her whether or not she had done well. she rose again to run across the stage with a cry of "Son morta!" and vanish for the last time before the finale.

The ending of the opera was a triumph, as it always is with classics with a good cast. The final chorus was sung with gusto by the soloists, the respective pairs that had ended up together in the storyline holding hands. The well-deserved applause didn't require much time.

Up in the private box, Erik politely clapped as well, but quietly and only a few times. "I think it was a decent performance." He commented tonelessly, standing up to leave his box before anyone else would. Nadir stood up as well, grabbing him by the arm before he could vanish.

"I won't let you disappear on me again, Erik." The Iranian said, warningly.

"And what are you going to do, hold me in this box till the end of time?" Both knew he could have easily yanked his hand out of Nadir's grasp. He chose not to. "I will call you when I feel like talking to you in person. Surely you haven't forgotten that expensive little mobile phone I gave you. Don't you trust me?"

The Iranian hesitated. "I do, Erik, but I don't trust you not to change your mind within the minute."

"Then you will have to wait and see." Erik noted, withdrawing just as Christine stepped forward on the stage to take her bow.

When the long applause ended and the curtain finally fell permanently, Christine felt a wave of relief pass through her. The other performers were congratulating her and attempting to ask her about Erik, but she couldn't answer because she really knew nothing more than they. When Nadir made his way through the crowd, stopped only by the managers for a brief moment, who seemed a little disappointed as he said something to them – and Christine could tell what it was – she smiled for the first time.

"Was it good?" she asked, a bit more confidently than she spoke before.

"You were wonderful." The Iranian assured her. "Erik was even prouder than usual, which I thought was impossible. I'm sure he would have congratulated personally, if he hadn't been so keen to vanish."

Christine was for a moment too shocked to say anything. "You saw him?" she asked, stupefied.

"What do you think?" Nadir asked, seeming a bit tired.

With a small laugh, Christine said her goodbye to the other performers and the crew, following Nadir out of the building towards a taxi that would take her to her overly luxurious hotel. But she couldn't really do anything about it, as it had been already paid and her belongings had been taken there right from the airport. How Erik managed to pay for all of that, she had no idea, but she didn't have will to protest against anything at the moment.

"I'm staying until the premiere of Erik's opera." she told Nadir once they went for a late dinner in the hotel restaurant.

"He will want to congratulate you, without a doubt." Nadir said with absolute certainty. "And probably give you something new to study. I know that after such a debut, you will have trouble escaping his plans for you."

"Yes, but after finishing my article, I will be able to refuse." Christine said with a small smile. "Part of the power will pass to my hands."

"Tell me about this article of yours, the whole system you have with your lessons with Erik." The Iranian carefully asked, as it had been going through his mind for a long time. and he needed the second piece of the puzzle to see… and to know what to think of this curious arrangement. She would tell him – she suspected nothing, clearly.

And she did.


	22. Chapter 22

Now, as I am so immensely good to you, I decided to give you a quicker update than you would normally receive. However, expect it to be a bit shorter than usual and still revealing nothing of what you would like. And please forgive the intense phone calls that come often, but alas, they are a requirement.

A side-note: I have recently become a tad obsessed with Beauty and the Beast, one of my all-time favorite fairy tales, so I'm currently listening to the musical quite often. And while I was browsing DeviantArt for good images, I discovered this little beauty:

http/ic1.deviantart .com /fs7 /i/2005/181/c/1/ OneLoveOneLifetimebyLathronAniron. jpg

Just delete the spaces and you will see what I'm talking about. If not, just search DeviantArt for "one love one lifetime". I love that picture. And Belle actually looks pretty much like Emmy. Except for the fact that Belle is a great character and Emmy permanently has that wide-eyed look of blankness on her face.

Enough said.

X X X  
**  
Chapter 22**

X X X X

The next day, Christine almost killed herself tripping over the flowers that had been delivered into the hall of her apartment-like hotel room. Once she regained her balance, she laughed a bit, looking at the flowers, reading the cards. She knew enough Italian to recognize some words of praise, but not the whole notes. And, thankfully, some people had been helpful enough to write them in English. Finally, she navigated her way through the bouquets and managed to reach the closet and put on a casual summer dress.

She didn't much favor the idea of wandering around the city on her own and was spared the need to decide whether or not to go out by Nadir's timely arrival. He was quick to inform her that the managers of La Scala wanted to congratulate her personally. Thus she was forced to endure fifteen minutes of random congratulations. Nadir envied her patience. In her place, he would have jumped out of the window. Fortunately, the attention wasn't focused on him, so he was able to tune out the sounds of their voices.

Afterwards, once out of the office, Christine and Nadir agreed that until the premiere they were to attend, they would attempt to avoid anything that had to do with opera or at least the managers. It was a hopeful prayer, but both knew that it was just a wish. The next two days managed to pass quickly, as there was a lot to see in Milan and little supervision was now required for the opera. But Nadir still was spending some time checking that everything went according to plan.

Christine received no further calls from Erik, which was somewhat disappointing to her, but she hoped that he wasn't planning playing some kind of trick on her. After all, she had earned her right to see him at long last, hadn't she? On the morning of the day of Erik's opera, however, the phone finally rang and the caller was familiar to Christine.

"All right, Miss Oh-So-Proper, where the hell are you and that is it I hear from Lef that you ditched a quasi-terrorist attack report for a review?" Meg Giry said semi or perhaps mock angrily into the phone.

Christine smiled. "Good morning to you too, Meg."

"Don't you good morning me, Chris. I almost had a heart attack when I heard you left the country without telling me!"

"Then how come you're calling only just now?" a frown crept into her voice. "I've been gone since Friday."

Meg mumbled something about a romantic picnic with a guy whose name was unfamiliar to Christine, but quickly recovered. "So where are you, what are you up to and when will you be back? Details."

"I'm in Milan, I'm getting ready to go to the premiere of an opera – yes, I have my dress with me, Meg, please don't start – and I will be back tomorrow, hopefully."

"What do you mean, hopefully?" Meg asked suspiciously. "Is there anything I should know about?"

"Only this – tell Raoul that I love him." It was so much easier not to say it face-to-face. But still, she meant it. The thought of Raoul made her a little sad; her conscience always gave her trouble when she thought about how she had kept her secret from him. But it would be as she had promised. And then, they would go to France, if he wanted to.

"Well, all right, but you haven't seen the last of me! Now about those ten bucks you owe me…" Meg continued slyly.

Christine proceeded to groan.

X X X

The entire city seemed to have decided to go to Erik's opera that night – Christine went through several channels on TV and any that had a cultural section was telling people about the premiere of the opera and she was close enough to the opera house to see people heading there hours early to find a place to leave their cars.

Her only problem was that she had no idea where to meet her escort, at least until she managed to locate on one of her desks another flower. This one, however, was unlike all the others she had received, and not only because it was single. It was a blood-red rose with a neatly-tied satin ribbon around it and a note wrapped around it the flower, secured by the black fabric. She looked at it quizzically and the unfolded the message just as it began to rain outside. Christine sighed. She hadn't brought an umbrella with her, just a coat.

_At the opera. _The note said simply.

With a mild frown on her face, Christine grabbed her pen and a small notebook in which she had written every question that had ever popped into her mind during her stay. She had the dress made by Sorelli on her, though the fashion designer herself would have probably disagreed that an outfit like that shouldn't be worn twice. She had managed to tame some of her curls into a bun, but it had been a battle on its own accord. With a bit of make-up, she thought she looked presentable enough, though she was aware that Erik had seen her in her bad moods as well and she usually skipped caring for mundane things such as looks then.

Once she was certain she had everything, she locked her room safely and took the lift down to the most luxurious part of the entire hotel. She felt almost as if she were dressed in rags compared to some of the ladies around there, but only in terms of price. She left the main hall and wrapped her coat around herself more tightly. Fortunately, it wasn't raining much yet – the real storm seemed to be safely at a distance, but she knew well to expect a full-blow thunderstorm soon.

Had she been expecting that Erik would come to a crowded hotel just because of her? She shook her head as she half-ran down the street, like everyone else around her. Her only fortune was that the opera house was only a few steps away from her temporary home. She wasn't soaked when she entered, but was thoroughly aware that had she come a few minutes later, her quasi-fixed hair would have been a mess at once. Her dress wasn't wet, but she was glad to be rid of the coat.

La Scala was stupendous as always, but thoroughly different from a visitor's perspective. Knowing that she wasn't about to perform in a world-famous operatic classic certainly helped to ease her thoughts and when she received a message from Raoul, she actually smiled.

_Sweep them all off their feet, Christine. I love you too. R._

Nevertheless, she made a mental note to turn the sound on her phone off later on and began looking around. She didn't have a ticket, but the staff apparently knew that she had a reservation, because they let her in without problems once they recognized her face and she confirmed it with her name. she didn't spot Nadir among the crowds yet, but was thoroughly enjoying that she wasn't recognized by any of the guests.

She was hoping for another note or sign where to look for Erik… and sincerely hoped that he would show up. No such luck. But she easily worked out that crowded places weren't the spot where to look. Avoiding the balcony that gave a nice view of the piazza, she proceeded to their box on the second highest balcony of the auditorium, scarcely surprised when her purse began to vibrate steps away from the door. She accepted the call at once.

"Good evening, Erik." She said, hoping that her tone was pleasant and not anxious. "Would it be too large a request if I'd ask you to please tell me where you are right now? I'm certain you haven't forgotten our agreement."

"Are you absolutely certain you wish to go through with this, Christine?" his voice was slightly tense, she noticed, and uncommonly serious for a conversation that wasn't about music.

"Of course I am." Christine said firmly. "I have been ever since the moment I agreed to all of this. I did my part of the deal – I performed, I nearly fainted out of fear. Surely what I ask of you isn't as frightening."

"That is entirely a matter of perspective, my dear."

Christine froze on the spot, a tension passing through her entire body. The voice that had spoken the last sentence hadn't come from the phone. Slowly, she lowered the stiff hand that held her phone and drew a breath before turning around. She half-expected to see nothing.

Wrong.

From what she had managed to decipher in the darkness she had studied music in before, everything matched. Height slightly above six feet, slender to an almost ghastly point, with eyes that shone with an amber light, the man she saw was dressed in simple-looking black evening clothes that seemed to help him blend with the darkness. His black hair matched them perfectly and for a moment, Christine actually thought his skin was white as snow. But when she attempted to absorb his features, she realized that she scarcely saw any.

She saw the eyes, not vicious or cold, she saw part of his thin mouth and a bit of skin here or there. But for the most part, his face was obscured by an ivory-colored mask that remained in place by no visible means.

Christine found herself staring at him, transfixed, even as he gave her a small bow and took her hand in his, which was covered a soft black glove. For a moment, she felt that she had been transformed into the nineteenth century, because she noticed he was wearing a long old-fashioned black opera cape instead of a coat, but strangely enough, it didn't look out of place. He leaned forward to kiss her hand, but never touched it with his lips. The mask didn't move an inch, securely placed on his face. He was a good few inches taller than her when he straightened up and the disproportion between them seemed even greater when he was so close.

"_Enchanté,__M_a_demoiselle _Daaé." he said silkily, his eyes never moving from her face, unblinking. It felt rather like being x-rayed to Christine, but there was no way of looking away. "You look especially ravishing today."

She wanted to say something intelligent or witty, as a professional should. But after a moment of attempting to force her tight throat to open enough to allow her vocal chords to produce an audible sound, she managed only to appear even more wide-eyed. "This isn't fair." She finally managed to say after a lot of effort.

"No, it isn't." Erik noted, very much aware of what she was referring to even if she wouldn't have been staring at his mask. "You have no idea. Life never is." He took a step back and offered her an arm with one fluid motion. "Come, _chérie._ The crowds shall soon be upon us and I prefer to avoid them as much as possible. Be certain that they aren't all wonderfully innocent like you. Come and save the questions on the tip of your tongue for a few more hours."

Christine accepted the arm and allowed herself to be led into the box and sat down where he motioned to her. She saw that he closed the door securely and his eyes swept the surrounding boxes, apparently judging the view from them and how to make sure no one would see them. She observed this, still slightly dazed, but nevertheless growing calmer and accustomed to his presence.

Finally, he moved her chair a bit more to the background and moved his back as well. The lights in the box were adjustable, so he dimmed them to a more acceptable level. The box was a bit darker, but not overly so. Just as Christine was about to say something, having gathered her wits, people slowly began entering the auditorium. And before she could open her mouth, Erik raised a hand to silence her. He removed his cape, revealing an expensive black evening suit, then sat down in his chair.

Unaccustomed to the proximity of a semi-stranger, of anyone except perhaps Nadir, Erik seemed at a loss at what to say or do. Her reaction to his eccentric appearance was nothing unusual, but he was afraid of her fascinated and questioning stare. From her point of view, it was a means of concealing his appearance because he didn't want her or anyone to know what he looked like. It was almost laughable to him, but also perfectly logical.

After all, she had no idea, the poor wide-eyed innocent. And hopefully, she never would.

"Please don't ask about the mask, Christine." he said simply, not looking at her. "I assure you that there are perfectly logical reasons for it and you aren't responsible for any. Simply accept it as it is and do not ask for anything more."

With the corner of his eye, he saw her head return from the clouds and nod in understanding. There was still a question in her mind, but she temporarily pushed it aside. Nevertheless, Erik wasn't eager to give her opportunities to remember it. Never would anyone get to see what lay beneath his mask, not after the fall… the scream… he shut his eyes tight for a moment, shutting out the memories, then looked at the scene, where the curtain was still down, but some of the props were there already.

"I'm sorry." Christine said, looking down for a moment. "I'm simply too overwhelmed to do anything else but stare."

Relieved for the moment, Erik smiled a bit. "Then I'm content – I know I'm not losing my touch. I would be disappointed if you wouldn't be at least speechless."

"And will I really be able to ask you about anything? Except for the mask, then." She amended, remembering what he had told her. "Will you allow me to publish your answers? Otherwise my boss, Mr. Lefévre, will have my neck."

"There will be terms and conditions, you must realize." Erik warned her, "And I warn you that I would be most… displeased if you disobeyed or ignored them."

Christine nodded. Then she gave a nervous little laugh. "I didn't even say what an honor it was for me, forgive me. It's the greatest pleasure to meet you in person, monsieur."

"You may still call me Erik." He noted, waving off the pleasantries. "Nothing has changed and hopefully nothing will. "Monsieur" requires knowing one's surname. I have none. At least none that I acknowledge. A civil conversation doesn't require formalities. I had hoped that you, who so often use wordplay, would remember that."

"I know wordplay, yes, and I know a master when I see one." Christine shot back, relaxing a bit in her chair. "In my humble opinion, this is going to be a very long evening."

"Oh, I wish you were right." Erik noted as they both turned their attention to the slowly darkening auditorium.


	23. Chapter 23

I know, I know, this took ages, but I had so much on my mind and to do… I know it's a lame excuse, but it's the truth. Add to that a writer's block and voila! An excuse is at hand. Besides, my oh-so-wonderful classmates want me to sing at our prom-like-ball in November, and seeing as the only aria they know is La Habanera, I have to get gypsy attire and practice my French. Plus, I'm to sing Adeste Fideles and a few folk songs at our art school's Christmas concert and my singing teacher is confident in my progress, so I'm not about to disappoint her.

Anyway, some goodies at last and beware the cliffhanger! I was trying to follow the musical flow of the story here, with PoTO and MotN, but that doesn't mean that there are too many similarities here.

Read and review!

X X X

**Chapter 23**

X X X X

Once the curtain fell, Christine felt herself automatically stand up while clapping intensely. For over two and a half hours she had been at the edge of her seat, along with what she supposed was the entire theater. However, before she could clap more than a few times, Erik stood up from his seat and made a polite gesture to the door.

"If you'll forgive me for not preferring crowds, I would say that this is the opportune moment for us to take our leave. If you feel the need to applaud, I can easily secure you a ticket for the next performance." He said, already opening the door and gesturing her to exit the box. Somewhat reluctantly, Christine obeyed.

It would seem that they were running through the opera house once they left the box – certainly Christine had a bit of a problem with keeping up with Erik's swift pace. However, she didn't see the point in running – the opera was likely to receive a ten minute applause, plus the ovations for individual singers. But Erik obviously knew his way around La Scala perfectly and, after allowing her a minute to claim her coat, led her out by a side entrance she would never have noticed on her own. It was still raining outside, but Erik immediately made a beeline for the far end of the piazza, where an expensive black Mercedes was parked, almost invisible in the dark.

Christine sat down in the passenger's seat and in a moment, she quickly buckled her seatbelt, because they took off with speed. Italian drivers had always struck her as slightly insane, due to the fact that they obeyed practically no rules when it came to cities, but Erik didn't seem to have any problem with the car. In fact, he seemed to be driving slower than he was used to, because there was a slightly bored air around the movements he made.

"Where are we going?" Christine asked a minute afterwards, once she got used to the situation.

The car took a turn left. "As unfortunately, building houses still takes too much time; I must content myself with flats in certain cities. I have to spend large amounts of time in cities where my operas are premiered and performed. Fortunately, finances have never been a problem for me, but patience, on the other hand…" Erik sighed briefly. "I might decide to sell the house you saw in London, minus the furnishings, of course, and acquire a flat. But then again, it's a warehouse, you could say, for my instruments. I doubt the neighbors would be very pleased with hearing an electronic organ in the middle of the night, and as I cannot have a church organ due to its size and sound, it is my favored instrument for composing."

Making a mental note to write that down once they would stop racing through the city, Christine opened her window a bit, but turned away from the sight of the blinking and vanishing lights, as it was making her a bit dizzy.

"We will be there in a moment." Erik's voice broke the momentary silence. "And don't worry about the speed – we would be likely in more danger if we were slow."

Nevertheless, Christine felt a lot better when they stopped on a well-lit street in the center of Milan and she was able to stretch her legs a bit. It wasn't very surprising to her that the apartment Erik mentioned to her was in one of the older, but still beautifully preserved buildings, which was certainly nice enough to attract attention, but not fancy enough to make anyone suppose that someone like him lived within.

The apartment Christine entered was, once lit up, an art nouveau paradise, but nevertheless, it didn't feel overdecorated to her, which was a major surprise. It was filled with earthly colors, such as brown, red and yellow, but she saw immediately that this was also more of a workshop than a real home – there was a piano visible in the partially opened room on her left and stacks of sheet music, at times in neat order, at times simply lying around. And the most papers were located around or in the trash bin.

"I don't understand how you have time to do all of this work." Christine said as she sat down on an offered chair in what appeared to be the living room. "There's just so much work… do all of your homes look like this?"

"I wouldn't call them homes, but yes, they look like this." Erik said as he sat down, facing her. "I'm afraid I don't have much of a variety of drinks here, save for some coffee, but don't hesitate to ask if you feel tired."

"Oh, no, no." Christine shook her head and quickly dug through her purse for a pen and paper, then her tape recorder. "I don't need coffee yet, I had a few hours of sleep during the day. I don't want to miss a minute of this night. I've put too much work into this."

"Well, I can safely assure you that no one has ever been so eager for my company." Erik said, unnaturally humbly. He seemed at loss at what to say, which Christine found strange. She had fully expected him to start giving her commands and terms. But, as if shrugging off weariness – but not wariness - he straightened up a bit on his chair and his gaze hardened. "Very well, then. Ask what you will. Save for the mask, Christine. You may ask anything but that."

"May I ask why…?"

"No." he cut her off immediately. "Not that, never that. This matter is settled."

The steely tone almost made Christine flinch, but her curiosity remained. Was it because of her – that he didn't want anyone to see his face? "What inspired you to become a composer?" the journalist pushed the record button on the little device and took up her pen, attempting to recreate a professional atmosphere.

"I was always a composer, because music was one of the few pleasures available to me." He said, not elaborating or explaining his meaning.

"The subjects you deal with in your operas often remind of the stories of great operas – Madama Butterfly, Cosi fan tutte for the two newest ones. Do you find inspiration in those works?"

"I will write an opera on a modern subject one day, but I am a classic at heart. And it can prove difficult to bring the world something new after the thousands of operas it has already seen and heard. My attempt is to revive the genre, not to reconstruct it. That is a goal for the future."

Christine nodded curtly. "Aside from that goal, what is your intent for the future? Will you ever allow the world to discover the meanings behind your operas by meeting you? Will you ever be present for a triumph?"

"The music I write, I write for myself and it is simply my will that the world would hear it, when harsh sounds are considered music today. I've outgrown my need for applause and appreciation. I am content as long as there is beauty that I can cherish in this world, be it created by me or anyone else."

"Surely it is difficult to operate in secret like this."

He gave a nod. "Yes. Difficult, but not impossible. Nothing is impossible, save for listening to Meyerbeer without falling asleep."

"You have a beautiful voice – have you ever considered singing in your own operas? Forsaking the back-stage for the stage?"

"No, never." Erik shook his head. "Again you approach the question I told you not to ask. No, never will I sing upon the stage. My compositions bring me enough fame and fortune. As long as they are appreciated, why should I disappoint or arouse even more curiosity? I am content with my life as it is."

"May I ask about your family?" Christine asked, changing the subject a bit more gently. She hadn't brought it up before. "You never mentioned anyone."

"Because there is no one." Erik said flatly, "My father, I have never had the privilege of knowing; my mother appreciated my company about as much as I learned to appreciate hers. Siblings, thank goodness, I have none. And the only love of my life is music."

"Friends? Acquaintances whose presence you find pleasing?" Christine went on.

"Yes, two. One, a stubborn daroga, who has been at my heels for a long time, but has not the wit to be afraid of me and the other, my debuting student, who is now the subject of fighting between La Scala and Opéra Garnier."

Christine's pen slipped on the sheet of paper, making a long mark. The journalist didn't much care for a moment, as she cast Erik a wide-eyed look of a deer about to be hit by a truck on the highway in the middle of the night.

"The former is offering the role of Mimi in _La Boheme_ and a permanent contract with the possibility of studying another role when available, the latter Oscar in _Un Ballo in Maschera_ and the consideration of a revival of _Agrippina_, with a role for her, naturally. Both offers are attractive."

"What are you trying to do?" Christine asked quietly, forgetting her professional ways for a moment.

"I beg your pardon?" Erik asked politely.

"This isn't about the interview anymore, is it? It never was…" she whispered, looking down, then looking up, slightly warily. "What do you want from me?"

"Your voice." the masked man replied softly, without the slightest hesitation. "Have I not told you that I have never heard any voice like it? Even to hear you speak is amazing, because it is your voice. What I want from you, you ask? I want you to sing. To stun the world, to become the prima donna of the worldly stage. I want you to show them perfection. That is and has always been my aim."

"I'm not a singer." Christine shook her head, "I've got my job and my life. You can't just turn it upside-down at will." She stood up. "Thank you for your time, Erik, I appreciate everything you have done for me and that you have answered my questions."

"I can change your fate." He said just as she turned to walk away. "You know well that on your own, you would still be back in a small office in your magazine's building, writing comments about politics that have interested you only because you run from what is your destiny. I understand you."

"Do you?" Christine asked, doubtfully. But she was lying.

"Didn't you appreciate the feeling when you were on stage and stole the hearts of the audience?" Erik continued from behind her, also standing up. "It was simply the beginning. There are dozens of roles I have imagined you singing and excelling in… and with my aid, you can steal the hearts of the world." She stopped, but didn't turn back. "I see you as Olympia, Gilda, Violetta, Amina, Lucia… triumphing again and again. I have heard a thousand singers, but I feel as I've been deaf before hearing your voice, an untrained voice! Must I beg you to make you understand my point?"

"My father… he spoke similar things back when… when he was alive." Christine said quietly. "I thought I could never sing without him." She shook her head fiercely, as if to chase away illusions. "No. I am secure in life right now. I have a job, friends, Raoul – you're suggesting a gamble of the greatest kind. Suppose my voice fails. Suppose I lose it. What then?"

Though having tensed a bit at the mention of Raoul, Erik spoke gently. "I can promise you I will make sure you will stay silent if you get even a little cold and that I will preserve your voice for as long as possible. Consider fulfilling your father's dreams. Help me, Christine. Please don't give up now. Don't go."

Freezing on the spot, Christine debated with herself, forgetting for a moment that Erik was still watching her intensely. He had almost gone to the limits of gentleness with his voice, something he rarely required. However, strong inspiration was needed for the girl who had tried to slip away at the moment of their first triumph, scared of it. But what gamble was this – a game where the only ending was a triumph. They would win, no matter what.

But if she would refuse again, he wasn't certain he would be able to let her go just like that. After so much time and effort, he had managed to produce the voice that, in his mind, outmatched his own, and he wasn't about to let it slip away due to lack of self-confidence on her part. However, it seemed she had given into the power of his persuasion as she turned to face him with uncertain eyes.

"Come, let me show you the music I have written for you." He extended a hand towards her slowly. "Come. Don't be afraid."

Christine bit her lip, but it seemed that her curiosity and her love of music had taken over. She took the offered hand, though it seemed to flinch away momentarily, as if regretting the gesture, but then she could feel a slight grip on her hand as she was led into apparently one of the music rooms, where the organ he mentioned to her before was resting against the wall.

"I rewrote some arias for you and wrote down the rare compositions that will suit your voice." Erik explained to her, indicating to several of the stacks of sheet music. "We will move to the light lyric coloratura repertoire as soon as possible, that is your strength."

"But I have a job already – what am I supposed to do, just quit it like that?" Christine asked. "I cannot rehearse an opera and work in a magazine at the same time."

Erik waved the question off. "We will deal with such problems later. For now, quitting your job isn't necessary. Of course, eventually, it might be. We will work individually for now, as we have before."

Being this close to him, Christine finally noticed that it was quite hard to even see where the mask ended and where his face began. It was tailored so perfectly accurately that it seemed to be second skin, save for its color and stillness. No one had learned how to create a mask that would animate the features, it seemed. Nevertheless, it was intriguing to see. And at once, her curiosity posed her several questions. The most prominent among them was, naturally, the desire to see his face. Why did he conceal it? Surely not because he didn't want her to know what he looked like, she reasoned. After all, he had said that he enjoyed her company and it had been hinted that he withheld little information from her.

Why, then? Was he perhaps somehow deformed? Christine couldn't imagine a condition terrible enough to make one cover their face with a mask. After all, this wasn't a time of centuries long past – nowadays, people were used to deformities or injuries that weren't comfortable to look at, but nevertheless, had to be coped with.

Should she ask again… only to be refused? But then again, would he ever allow? Would she ever know? And why shouldn't she? He would be angry with her, certainly, but at least the awkwardness between them would mention, perhaps, and they would be able to talk more openly.

The still-recording tape recorder was on the table… and never had there been a tape recorder that had recorded a sound such as that which came moments later.


	24. Chapter 24

Sorry this took so long, but last weekend, my uncle died unexpectedly, so my work on fanfiction has been put on hiatus for the time being. However, I may be able to resume now, as there has already been a funeral. Don't expect speedy updates, though.

Anyway, here is the chapter, hopefully, it isn't too much of a filler, but nevertheless, I think I did my best. You are free to guess the melody… but I don't suppose you´ll guess correctly ;) Chocolate for anyone who finds the musical quote! It should be obvious once you read it.

X X X

**Chapter 24**

X X X X

It was a music box Christine triggered by accident.

She jumped away from it at once it started playing a soft melody. Erik, distracted for the moment, put the stack of sheet music in his hands away and turned the music box off. Christine, however, remained staring at it. It showed a doll in a long, eighteenth-century gown, dancing around a ballroom, alone. Surprisingly, the doll looked rather like her. It was amazingly detailed – she could almost see every strand of hair on it.

"My apologies, I shouldn't have left it here." Erik said, moving as if to pick up the music box and take it away. He stopped short, however, when he saw Christine's transfixed stare. "You like it?"

Christine nodded. "It's beautiful. Where did you get it?" Silence. "You… you made this?" she asked, stunned, turning to look at him. The following silence was a clear affirmative. "This is incredible." she breathed, crouching to take a closer look at the box. She knew the tune from somewhere… "It's some kind of opera melody, I know it…"

"Yes, not the most famous piece from the particular opera, but it was more than fitting, I believe." Erik said, in a strangely quiet voice. "I hope you don't mind I modeled the doll after you. However, I have no taste for modern garments when it comes to works of art, small as they might be."

Christine's mind was racing. So frightfully familiar, the melody… "Which song is it?"

But Erik shook his head. "I leave that to you. You're the investigative journalist here, Christine. You will find out easily." A deep sigh came from him and he turned away. "We will begin with _Saper vorreste_ as soon as you return to England. I believe a non-star role would be better for you at the moment. Mimi is still too difficult for you… for now. But Oscar is a coloratura part, Christine, I warn you in advance, and we will need to practice more than ever…"

"Who are you… really?" the question surprised him more than he allowed her to see. But his imagination was quick enough to carry an answer to him swiftly. Turning back to Christine, his eyes glittered with mischief.

"I am the phantom of the opera." he said, but his voice was serious. "I am Erik – I have never lied to you about anything you have asked me. I am simply someone who appreciates beauty when he sees it and intends to make it shine. Your voice is that beauty. Don't fear, don't be nervous. Your path to stardom will be easier than you might imagine. Your trust is all I require."

"It simply seems too… unreal." Christine shook her head. "I've never studied at any art school."

"It didn't matter to La Scala, so to whom do you think it will matter? My name as backup is proof enough of your proficiency if your voice isn't sufficient to show them already."

"Who were you before you became a composer, Erik?" Christine asked as he resumed his search of the sheet music. "I want to know everything."

"That I hope you never will." His tone was slightly grim. "Sometimes, you are like a child. But children have that strange purity… yes, I suppose it enhances your musicianship. Enough questions for today, my dear. Too much information might be to overwhelming."

Though eager to know more, a rational part of Christine knew that she had more than exhausted her capacity for surprise and shock for the day. Even the idea of robbing him of the mask seemed to be a bit far-fetched at the moment. she imagined that it wouldn't be a good way of repaying him for sharing these things with her – how he created his music and why. Some day, however, she knew that she would have to ask the question again, because her own explanations didn't seem to suit the situation anymore.

"I assume you have been given enough information to sustain your curiosity and to expose to the world in that article of yours." Erik concluded. "You should be pleased with yourself, as I have given more than was my intention. Now, I insist on driving you to your hotel. No streets are safe at nighttime, especially for a young woman on her own."

Knowing it was pointless to object or say anything else, Christine silently allowed him to help her with her coat, which he had collected too quickly for her to even notice. But despite the fact that it felt wonderful to find a man who opened doors for her and would probably throw down his coat if she were to walk over a puddle, a tiny part of her felt strange being treated like a china doll. She attributed it to the fact that she wasn't used to this kind of thing. After all, she asked herself, how many gentlemen were there left in the world?

She was glad she hadn't struck another bet with Meg. She would have ended up owing her more money.

"So you propose I simply go to my boss when I return to London and tell him I´m quitting my job because a world-famous composer decided I am to become an opera singer?" Christine interrupted the slightly awkward silence in the car once they were returning to her hotel.

Erik thought that question very unnecessary. Surely she realized that the fact that every single person that had seen her perform had been aware that she was his student – the management clearly thought it a good advertising move, probably the only thing on which he agreed with them – and thus the news of her wouldn't take long to reach even the non-professional music world?

"If it comforts you, I can safely promise you that in the unlikely case of the failure of your career, I will personally take care of your finances until you are able to secure a position in the BBC."

The skeptical look on Christine´s face vanished in a brief laugh. "You would have to have a lot of money, then." As she got out of the car at last, she couldn't help asking: "Will I see you again?"

she had never seen anything closer to delight pass through his eyes, despite the firmness and formality of his voice. "Aside from the fact it will probably be necessary, I would be honored to have a proper conversation with you again. However, I´m afraid my time will be occupied by other matters as well. the premiere of an opera is a complex thing and I have yet to present the management with my criticism. As usual, I assume they will not be pleased." Christine nodded, understanding. "Don't hesitate to call me when you need me. I will contact you in a few days, once things settle down."

With a polite nod instead of a farewell, the window went up and the black Mercedes drove off, leaving Christine watch it disappear into the not-so-dark streets.

_Well, _she decided, ascending the few stairs to her hotel, _that was an adventure._

X X X

Christine´s flight was scheduled for the next afternoon, but Nadir was unable to see her off, being preoccupied with the aftermath of the opera´s premiere, thus left her only a bouquet of sunflowers, which she found very charming and a note that he was glad to have met her and was hoping it hadn't been for the last time.

Her flight was a pleasant one, if not boring. nothing unusual. Erik hadn't called, but she found it quite natural. After all, she had been warned this might happen. Still, she was too busy thinking about what a strange turn her life had taken. Her position in life seemed to have been secured and now she, who had forever been schooled not to act rashly, was risking everything in order to fulfill a dream that seemed to be unreal.

However, part of her was beginning to understand that she hadn't been booed at during her so-called debut and that, as far as she could tell, her voice had taken a turn to the better. She knew how to sing, in truth. It was all about polishing things up, as Sorelli would perhaps say. Or rather, trimming things a bit. That didn't mean she was exactly jumping up and down at the thought of singing at another prominent opera house, but she began to feel a little more self-confident.

Once the evening settled over Milan, Nadir remembered only the rush of the day. It had been a fast, blurry day, and the memory of it was both those things. He had spent the entire day receiving instructions from Erik and talking to the management, who weren't happy about the criticism of the production, but all-too-eager to hear if Nadir knew anything about Christine´s new choice of role. This was all new to Nadir, but he had been thinking this would happen. After all, since when did Erik attempt to do something just to kill time? Naturally he would want the girl to start a career… but he was more concerned about the article she would be writing.

Had Erik really showed himself to her? He didn't dare ask it in the note he had sent her, because there was a chance it might be intercepted. Perhaps he was being overly dramatic, bit his masked friend didn't call him daroga for nothing. After all, in the past, he had survived primarily due to his caution.

_Curiosity killed the cat, daroga. But in this case, I might be the one to reserve that honor. _The memories made him shiver.

Best not think about the desert or the past anymore, he decided. that was all settled and gone.

At the hour of Christine´s arrival, Raoul de Chagny was saying his goodbyes to the committee members he had had a meeting with. The de Chagnys, though being aristocrats, owned a chain of building companies that brought them great profit, though they hadn't been poor to begin with. And this year, his brother kept hinting that it might be time for his retirement – though Philippe was by no means old – meaning that Raoul would have to take over the company. The Viscount also assumed that it meant that Philippe also wanted him to at least attempt to find a relationship, as he himself had a failed marriage behind him, thus was being more careful now with Sorelli.

Raoul´s thoughts returned to Christine, if they had ever left her. All of a sudden, he finally realized what kind of distance lay between them, although he supposed he should have seen it in the way she had been distancing herself from him. Their lives, at the present, were different to a major degree. His was centered around a routine, while Christine had a different job every week, though she always had to find a story to go with it.

It was remarkable how such a quiet girl had become a journalist, a job that required a more outgoing personality. Nevertheless, they were spending too little time together at the present, both because of Raoul´s duties and those mysterious lessons Christine was taking. But she had said it would be explained. Well, the Viscount counted the minutes until it would be, because somehow, he had a strange feeling about the whole affair. Christine had never been one for secrecy.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he felt a tremendous affection for the girl. The memories of the happy moments they had shared while in Sweden had, in a way, carried him through all his relationships, because he had never met a girl that was as… natural as Christine. The naïve childhood fantasies weren't so childish now, as Christine was as real as anything now, despite her slight distancing.

All cliché stories one saw on television aside, he felt very comfortable around her and believed that once they would solve this minor crisis – for he was a firm believer that they would – he would perhaps ask her to proceed to the next step in their relationship. Aristocratic "affairs" in Britain were never too well concealed. Still, he felt that after over a decade of waiting, he could easily imagine an elegantly dressed Lady Christine de Chagny smiling at him.

On the other hand, Meg Giry wasn't having much of a good day. It started with the ringing phone. After explaining at least thirteen times that Miss Christine Daaé was away and no, it wasn't her, she managed to burn the eggs she had been making for breakfast. Not only that, but there seemed to be no stop to the calls she refused to answer and she ended up having to disable the telephone. Meg wasn't one for hasty assumptions, but she was willing to bet her entire shoe collection on what the purpose of those calls might be, once she was conscious enough to think about it.

The moment she heard the key in the lock was a very liberating one. In a minute, Christine, a single valise in her hand, entered, a coat over her blouse and blue jeans, exhaling slightly at the sight of home. Meg, however, didn't waste a moment.

"There you are, Chris!" she took the valise out of Christine´s hands and placed it near the door, dragging her friend to the living room. "You´ve had about a zillion phone calls, but I couldn't really answer them. What have you been up to, girl?" the brunette sat down on the nearest chair. "Is Meg correct again and we have a rendez-vous on our hands?"

"Meg, sweetie, all my love for managing my apartment, but I need a rest." Christine said, tiredly, "This evening will be devoted to work, not gossip, no matter how much ice-cream you may try to bribe me with."

However, Meg took it as an affirmative. "Ah-HA!" she cried at once, "As usual, my intuition is correct. The things I do for you, Chris." She shook her head. "I let news escape me because of your workaholic tendencies. Fine, then, but tomorrow, you won´t escape me that easily." The brunette stood up and went to get her things. "You´ve got some pizza left, so eat up, girl. You need it."

Nodding someone distractedly, Christine sat down at her computer, logging in with her usual swiftness. Checking the _Deacon´s_ website quickly, her eyes widened at the number of e-mails she had in her mailbox. Frowning, she opened the list of them, unsurprised that she didn't know any of the senders, but astonished by the number of messages with the header "Congratulations". She opened a few. The English in some was slightly off, and she recognized the distinct ".it" at the end of some of the addresses. Nevertheless, all started almost in the same manner.

_Congratulations on your debut in La Scala, it was a memorable performance… _

_I´m really mad that you weren't singing the star role… _

_Where in the world have you been hiding?... _

For a moment, she was astonished by the abilities of the internet before remembering that her address was almost certain to be on the _Deacon´s _website. The weight of the change she had made finally came down upon her. Of course those people knew her! They had seen her sing, there wasn't a chance this would go unnoticed…

Typing her name into several search engines with various modifications of her surname, as there rarely was a person who managed to get it right, she felt slightly jumpy when search results appeared, in various languages, and most spelled her surname correctly.

"Damn." she muttered under her breath.

This wouldn't go unnoticed, there was no chance of that.

Still, the best thing she could do would be write down the article. At last, she felt she had enough information. And it would be a good enough explanation for this debut when she would have to face Lefévre tomorrow, knowing that the boss was probably aware of this already, since someone must have forwarded him a message or written to him already.

And afterwards, she would really have to find out what song that music box had played.


	25. Chapter 25

(trumpets sound) I´M BACK!!!! At least temporarily. But you can't kill me, my dear readers, because if you do, you'll never find out how this story ends! Anyway, this chapter is looong overdue, I know that well, but there are dozens of good reasons why I wasn't able to finish this sooner. To spare you the lesser ones – I had uni admissions tests and still have two more ahead of me for art schools. My fingers are intact now, fortunately, but I have no idea when the next chapter will be posted. In any case, no Erik in this chapter, unfortunately, but something that will please all of you who don't want the story to remain static. A big realization. Anyway, on with the show!

X X X

**Chapter 25**

X X X X

The next day, Christine woke up with a feeling of dread. It took her a while to realize why she was feeling so frightened and when she did, it didn't ease her thoughts one bit. When she got to work, she half-expected everyone to be staring at her, but most of the people were either too busy with their own work or spared her a passing glance when they appeared to be at least slightly aware that something had happened. However, just as Meg wanted to corner her, her face shining with glee, Jammes told her that Lefévre would very much like to see her ASAP.

With a sinking feeling of resignation, Christine obeyed, knocking politely on the office door and entering when asked to do so. Lefévre was as always, calm and slightly disapproving-looking, but showed no real emotion.

"Miss Daaé, please have a seat." He motioned to the chair in front of his table. Christine sat down timidly, a sinking feeling in her stomach. "Christine, understand that in the past few weeks, you've evaded me and my aid almost entirely. Your work on the article you have pursued in these last weeks has been fully consuming your time, I understand that. However, it has recently come to my knowledge that you seem to be pursuing a wholly different career than the one you have chosen. You, of course, are aware if what I speak. While I hear you've done well, I would still like to hear an explanation from you."

Christine didn't waste a moment before producing a printed copy of her article on Erik and a cd with the file. This was the only way of doing it, she knew. The only way to prove to Lefévre that she didn't deserve a sacking and the only way to prove to herself that that night had been real, that it wasn't just one long illusion – not that Erik wasn't capable of such things, of course. She handed it to her boss a bit more confidently than she would have usually done, but nevertheless wasn't at all at ease.

Lefévre accepted the material and his bespectacled eyes ran past the words and lines and paragraphs. Of course, his expression remained ever the same, but there was something that signified to the worried journalist that he wasn't at all displeased. After a few minutes, Lefévre carefully put the papers together again and glanced at her with something that could have been very close to admiration, if Lefévre ever displayed anything like that to others.

"I am reluctant to believe this is possible, Miss Daaé." He said after a moment of silence, straightening on his chair… but it was clear that he did believe. "It's a fascinating article. I don't think anyone else has gotten this deep yet. It has everything we need to have it make the first page." The tension Christine felt in her stomach lessened somewhat. "And you yourself surprised me. Miss Daaé, don't tell me you believed this would go unnoticed." He said when he saw her change of expression. "Every classy culture magazine on the continent that doesn't deal with pop culture trash mentions your name along with the premiere of the new opera. It's almost as if you had starred in it. After all, they introduced you as a special guest star and made clear who your teacher was on the cast list – I thought you knew that. I must confess, I was slightly angered by that. Losing my top journalist to a singsong career that could last a week."

Christine made a brave attempt at a smile, but she didn't quite succeed. "I take it you wish me to end this… relationship?" she asked, for a lack of better term. After all, the article was finished.

"Of course not." Lefévre said sharply, "All this changes the situation completely. The man is in the center of attention of the musical world today. Few people compose operas these days and even less are remembered longer than a few weeks. They view this guy as a chance for classical music to be reborn – he's in the eye of the hurricane right now, but evades it too skillfully. I want you to continue meeting with him, if at all possible. You don't have to get a truckload of information about him, what you've gathered thus far is more than enough. But what people really want are stories about people. His work is great, no one denies that, but not even you describe him as a person – rather, only him as the artist."

"You want me to pry into his personal background?" Christine was almost astonished. Or, more likely, she simply realized that asking questions like that would be fruitless. The image of Erik's masked face appeared in front of her eyes for a moment. Of course every question would lead back to that. It was also why she hadn't provided any picture of him, which he wouldn't have allowed, ever – and Lefévre mentioned that it was regrettable, but predictable.

"Nevertheless, try to understand my point, Miss Daaé." He explained to her afterwards. "I don't run a tabloid looking for scandals. I run an honest magazine for the people – and people are always more moved by something that they can relate to. Not all can relate to art, try as they might."

As she left the office, she realized that a few of her friends and colleagues were rushing towards her, bombarding her with questions- apparently, some had even managed to dig out a video of her performance in Figaro on youtube. Funny what you could find on the internet at times. They replayed it once and Christine watched herself, pale, distant from the camera, but her voice rang crystal-clear even as she lamented the loss of the pin the Count gave her. Wearily, she answered all of their inquiries to the best she could, but didn't share their enthusiasm that much anymore. But a thought occurred to her. She begged the person who found her video to search for famous opera arias – that she had one stuck in her head and couldn't remember which one it was.

It was fortunate that they had the time to search, or at least, she did, alone, sitting behind her computer with a neat little program they taught her to use in a half a minute long crash-course. She passed the most famous ones – the "pizza" aria, as she called _La donna e mobile _from Rigoletto, as it always played during an ad for a pizza company, _Largo al factotum_, the Figaro song (better remembered when thinking of Meg and a certain episode of Tom and Jerry she had been forced to watch). That music box aria wasn't _that_ cliché when it came to opera, but it was certainly famous. What other operas were downright famous? And, after listening to a bit of the Toreador song, she found it.

It was downright obvious when she listened to it. Of course it was a tenor aria. She had heard it many times before, but compared to other famous pieces, it wasn't so well-known. But it was the right one, she knew, the tune that the figure had danced to, though now, it wasn't played by a violin, with the ping of a glockenspiel every now and then. When sung by a professional and backed by a full orchestra, it sounded wholly different and yet still the same.

The voice that sang it didn't pronounce the words completely well and the speech was already deformed by the way he had to say it to be able to sing the notes correctly. But that was unimportant. Immediately, she typed the desired name of song and the word "lyrics" behind it. Thousands of results. She clicked the one that included the translation of the words, not trusting her French enough to understand the full meaning of the phrases. But one thing was clear – the song had been chosen on purpose. It didn't have a melody that would make it good to dance to, even if the dance was a classical one. Not even a ballet dancer would have an easy time dancing to the slow, recitative-like melody. Why, then, had it been picked? After a while, she realized that whatever Erik did had some sort of meaning behind it. Even the mask had to have a meaning deeper than a seemingly childish desire to conceal his appearance from her. It seemed a petty reason to her now. Instead, she read.

_La fleur que tu m'avais jetée  
dans ma prison m'était restée,   
flétrie et sèche, cette fleur  
gardait toujours sa douce odeur; _

It was the Flower Song from Carmen. A continuation of the Habanera, in a way, or rather, an answer to it. Lesser known in general, but beautiful nonetheless. But completely wrong for a music box, she thought. Why not some waltz aria, she could think of a few, or those with a _tempo di menuetto_, those would be far more fitting. This one had almost no repeated phrase, changed quickly, thus tore away the effect that the music box was timeless.

_The flower that you threw me  
remained with me in my prison.  
Dried and withered, this flower  
still kept its sweet scent; _

Perhaps she was simply being paranoid, Christine thought. After all, not everything had to have a conspiracy behind it. Certainly not a silly little music box. Well... it was certainly not a silly one; but even a beautiful music box was still a music box.

_et pendant des heures entières,  
sur mes yeux fermant mes paupières,  
de cette odeur je m' enivrais  
et dans la nuit je te voyais! _

"Hey, Christine." Meg greeted her, sitting on the edge of the nearest table. "How´s things? A little birdie told me you had a hell of a success in Italy."

She didn't even glance at Meg, but smiled slightly. "Yeah, you could call it a hell, I guess."

"Oh, cheer up." The brunette yawned slightly, apparently still a bit sleepy. "What are you reading?"

_and for hours on end,  
closing my eyelids,  
I drank in its fragrance  
and at night I saw you. _

"A song I recently heard… I finally found out where I'd heard it before." Christine said, taking a sip of the coffee Meg handed her. "It´s from Carmen."

"You mean the gypsy song? Ta ram tam tam, ta ram tam tam, ta ram ta ratatata tam tam tam…" Meg hummed the most famous part of the Habanera a bit tonelessly, but then glanced at the screen Christine was watching so intensely. "Where did you hear it?"

_Je me prenais à te maudire,  
a te détester, à me dire:  
Pourquoi faut-il que le destin  
l' ait mise là sur mon chemin! _

"A music box, actually." She said, almost absent-mindedly.

"Hark! Methinks a story is about to be told!" Meg laughed slightly at her own words. "So that means you met Monsieur le Composer at long last? You have to tell me everything about it. Who else would be keeping music boxes with arias?" she asked when Christine glanced at her quizzically. "Auntie Meganette knows everything, Chris. And, of course, Lef told me everything when I gave him today's share of photos. I might actually start working full-time here, who knows?"

_I began to curse you,  
to hate you, to ask myself  
why destiny had  
to put you in my path. _

"Hmm…" Meg muttered to herself, her eyes sweeping the lines faster than Christine's – the blonde actually seemed to be pondering every word. "And he played this song to you, Chris?"

"I overheard it, actually. He had a music box in the room and it started playing… I was actually surprised, the ballerina figure on it, you know – I… well, I thought it kind of looked like… me, really."

The photographer gave a squeal. "Ah, let me hear those church bells ringing…."

_Puis, je m' accusais de blasphème,  
et je ne sentais en moi même   
qu'un seul désir, un seul espoir:  
Te revoir, Carmen, oui, te revoir! _

Christine frowned. "Don't be silly, Meg, I don't think I'm in the mood for that. Besides, I'm quite happy with my relationship with Raoul, thank you very much." Raoul... she would have to call him. After all, she had promised him answers... and Lefévre wanted her to continue meeting with Erik… and she herself wasn't so certain she wanted to part ways with him just yet. He was simply too… interesting. And, in a way, he reminded her of her father. He was also a unique musician, talented, and cared about her musical education.

_Then I accused myself of blasphemy,  
and felt within myself  
but one single desire, one single hope,  
to see you again, Carmen, yes, to see you again! _

She didn't see the expression on Meg´s face, which served to deem her completely clueless. While the brunette was limited when it came to knowledge of operas, she had come to the last line of the translated song quicker than Christine. If the girl wouldn't get the hint from this, Meg thought inwardly, she was really blind and heading for serious trouble. In her eyes, it was almost as if a brick wall was standing in the middle of the highway – that obvious. She had seen one too many soap operas, perhaps, but at least she was able to recognize the first warning signs. Assuming, of course, that she had been correct and the figure had indeed resembled her.

_Car tu n'avais eu qu'à paraître,  
qu'à jeter un regard sur moi,  
pour t'emparer de tout mon être,  
o ma Carmen!  
Et j'étais une chose à toi! _

A mobile phone rang and Christine picked it up absent-mindedly. "Christine Daaé speaking." She said calmly.

"Hi, Christine." Raoul´s voice said. it was as calm as hers, soft, relieved to be hearing from her, yet still somewhat sad. "I was hoping we could meet for lunch or dinner today and talk about what you said before leaving…"

"Yes, yes, of course." How fortunate that her work for the day was done! Refusing him now would have surely been a nail into the coffin of their relationship. And it hit her with a pang. She had been the one killing their relationship… she was the one who had distanced herself into music and work and whatever else she wanted…. She had been selfish. "Whenever you want."

"I could pick you up at three, if you'd like. I'll be waiting in front of the office building, how is that?"

"Perfect." She said immediately. "I'd love to. I want to tell you everything, as I promised, Raoul. I want to make things right between us. No more secrets and distancing myself. I want to make things up to you."

_For you had only to appear,  
to cast me but one glance,  
to take possession of all my being,  
o my Carmen,  
and I was utterly yours._

A deep sigh of relief was audible and the change in Raoul´s youthful voice that could have been a tenor very pleasing to the ear, had he ever received any vocal education, seemed to have lost a weight that had been holding it underwater for too long. "Christine, thank you. It means the world to me. You are my everything."

She answered something sweet, caring. "Everything will be all right. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Pick whatever restaurant you will, but I warn you, I'm not dressed for a fancy place." He laughed – she hadn't heard that wonderful sound for so long – and hung up with words of love she shyly attempted to return. Looking up, she expected Meg to grin down at her, but the brunette's face was surprisingly grave. Wondering why, she almost asked, but decided to finish reading the last line before she would do so. and it was good that she did.

The phone dropped out of her hand. Meg caught it and secured it, but Christine continued staring at the screen. There was still that chance that it wasn't true, couldn't be true, that it was just a figment of her imagination, that she was simply too selfish and believed something like that to be true. It was a coincidence – a chain of coincidences, really. There was no other explanation. Every opera song spoke of what this spoke of. But if this was the message it was meant to give and she had acted Nancy Drew correctly… but of course it was no more than her watching too many romantic movies. If not… she didn't know what it meant besides what she read.

_Carmen, je t'aime! _


	26. Chapter 26

AArgh! Graduation stole my life!!!

X X X

**Chapter XXVI**

X X X X

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Oscar knows – but he won't tell!_

The words repeated themselves annoyingly in Christine's head throughout the rest of the day. She cursed the moment she had chosen to download the two arias she was supposed to be learning in a few days´ time, because the page Oscar, no matter how witty and bright and clever, was thoroughly annoying her with his smart mouth, and she felt rather sympathetic towards the "villain" of the opera, Renato, who had to bear this taunting song. All-in-all, Oscar was a good, difficult role, never central to the plot but the center of attention whenever he appeared on the stage.

Ruefully her mind returned to the wonderful era of the Time Before Erik when the world actually made sense, her job was her job, her life was her life, and strange poetic possibly would-be love declarations were… were…

Come to think of it, she would have never considered the idea of anything of the sort bringing out anything besides a sense of being in a cheap soap opera with a highly underwritten screenplay. And a bad cast. But, nevertheless, there was some charm to what she had up till that moment imagined to be a cliché of the worst kind. No, not some. A lot of it. Why? Probably because nothing was ever normal with Erik. Those two words simply didn't belong in one sentence.

On her way downstairs to meet Raoul, she found a text message on her phone.

_Tomorrow, usual time and place, if you can make it. I hope you have listened to the arias at least once. (_If only I hadn't, Christine thought, I wish to God I hadn't.) _There is ample time for learning them, fortunately. The re-casting of the production will take some time, so we might be able to do some other practice songs as well. Don't underestimate the importance of your role. _I _will know if you don't do your best._

With a sigh, Christine tucked the phone back into the purse. After all, it was useless to reply in any fashion – it was the kind of message she would have expected to receive. By then, she had managed to convince herself that her imagination was overreacting when it came to the music box. After all, it was just that – a box that played the same tune over and over again. It could have held more meaning had she been the one to _receive _it, but as Erik had showed no intention of parting with any of his possessions, she rationally concluded that it was simply meant to be pleasurable to the senses, and the Flower Song was certainly an unusual and beautiful aria.

Raoul was expecting her near his car… or one of them, anyway. He was plainly but elegantly clad and radiated a calmness that she found almost unnatural. Not that it was unnatural for him to be like that, no, it was just that her mind had long since forgotten what the word "peace" meant, it seemed. It was a foreign concept, not having a tutor at her heels, pushing her forward all the time. Once he spotted her, he smiled kindly and even opened the door for her when she wanted to do that herself. Oddly enough, he was silent throughout most of their journey to a park outside the centre of the city, but once they left the car behind and proceeded into the green world outside, he was quick to remind her of her promise of answers.

She was glad that they weren't sitting anywhere, that she could keep her limbs occupied without appearing to be nervous. This would require careful wording, after all.

"Well, to be brief and straight to the point," it was not a sound beginning, but she imagined he had had quite enough of her answers – the attempts to evade giving any kind of useful information – by now. "I have been writing an article quite outside my usual area for some time. It was supposed to be an article about the new composer, Erik, and I turned it in only recently. Now, to be completely honest, I… I suppose I had the most ridiculous kind of luck." She said in an attempt at lightheartedness, smiling somewhat nervously. "When Meg and I went to Covent Garden, she forced me to sing a bit and, surprisingly enough, he was there and heard me. We then struck a bargain – he wanted to train me in the art of operatic singing and, in exchange, he agreed to answer some of my questions." There was a brief silence. "That is why I have been so preoccupied recently. Erik isn't a person to compromise easily."

There was certainly no mention of dark rooms, strange voices, trips to La Scala and music boxes with a ballerina that looked like her in that little speech, she had made damned sure of that. Judging by the look on Raoul´s face, he had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn't telling him everything – which she could understand perfectly – but, all in all, wasn't as angry or sad as she had supposed he would be after such a revelation.

"You realize you could have told me about this long ago, Christine." He finally said, with a wonderful simplicity to his words. It seemed that he didn't understand why she believed this was a thing to be kept from him. With a brief sigh, he continued. "I really care about you and I have enough experience with the press to understand that such a "catch" is not to be given up. But I want us to be honest with each other. You don't have to be afraid of confessing anything to me." The disarming smile he awarded her with – the first she had seen after what seemed an age – almost made her agree with that and tell him everything else that was preoccupying her mind. Almost. "And if you want to become an opera diva, you have my full support, moral and otherwise. I could get you into the best schools easily, and if Erik things you have talent, that must mean something, because I've never heard him praise a singer before."

"Raoul!" Christine blanched, "Don't say such things – do you have the faintest idea what that would cost? I don't want you to think me a gold digger who is dating you only because of your money and status." But she hardly even listened to the reply, realizing that she repeated those words almost always when they went out together somewhere.

Raoul seemed to think so too, though it had been a somewhat longer time since they had met last. "Every time you say that I get the feeling you subconsciously want to push me away a bit. Don't worry about it," he said when she opened her mouth to object, "I understand that I cannot share all aspects of your life, Christine, but I would like to share some. So let's forget about anything that could trouble us and let me buy you a cup of coffee."

"Only if you forgive me, Raoul." She insisted, glancing at him mournfully again.

"Only if you give me a hug first."

X X X

After two long months of preparation, almost daily training – not to mention calls from Meg – Christine's friends entered the Palais Garnier, Meg with a look of wide-eyed wonder, Sorelli eying the decorations critically, the de Chagny brothers with their usual style. The hiding was over, Christine had decided, and although she knew she couldn't share everything that had transpired with any of them, she could at least give them a small apology in the form of an invitation to her Paris "debut" – with their own private box, of course. She had taken her time when asking Erik for it and had endured not one moment of anxiety when he had fixed her with a questioning and perhaps slightly displeased stare.

Nevertheless, he had not rejected her plea and took care of securing what she wanted. Perhaps he thought it beneath him, Christine had mused, and she had certainly taken good care to thank him properly before each lesson. He dismissed the thanks whenever she tried, but after several tries, she thought she saw the slight grouchiness he had displayed previously vanish to make way for his normal personality. Of course, it was not that much of an improvement when it came to their work. With so little time to go, her entire free time was now reserved for the training. Her work had settled into a routine, though as the head of her own section, she didn't do "field work" anymore, so it wasn't that much of a bother.

Ever since Raoul had forgiven her, she had not seen him for more than a few minutes at a time. And, of course, when she was not practicing her arias, she had costume tryouts, rehearsals to attend and French to practice. In short, not soon after, Christine found herself practically living in Paris and sitting at the computer whenever she wasn't at the opera house for practice. The lack of resistance from Lefévre was explained to her a few days before her departure, when he had summoned her into his office and explained, in short, why he was allowing her to do this. He said that he had never expected her to stay at the _Deacon_ forever, as it was too small-time for her on the long run. But, as he said, if he was to lose her, better to lose her to the opera than to competition. And if she could write an article for them as her farewell, if she succeeded with this career, an article about her trials and her training, her ups and downs, (and life with Erik in general, of course), all the better.

Though she knew that Erik would be watching that night, (from where, she had no idea, but he had assured her he would be there to "witness her triumph"), she was more nervous because of her friends than because of him. Time flied when one was having fun and she realized, surprised, that she had known Erik for almost half a year. To know someone for that long and not know their face… she began to feel a sort of agony. Her self-restraint was certainly on edge lately, particularly because she was forced to wonder if there wasn't some sort of reason why he had chosen the opera called "A Masked Ball" for her to sing in. nevertheless, she never brought up the mask again. She never mentioned the music box. It was her paranoia, the curse of every investigative journalist. She saw plots where there were none. And, of course, Erik never expressed any kind of interest in her besides her voice. He comforted her when necessary, true, but never overstepped the boundaries of professionalism in any way.

The two bright eyes that watched her even at this very moment, without her knowledge, moved to inspect the rest of the cast. His pupil wasn't fidgeting as much as she had been last time, which was good. In the clothes of an eighteenth century pageboy, all lace and gold and jewels, false as they were, her golden curls bound by a black ribbon, part of them hidden by a blue hat matching her waistcoat, she looked like a precious china doll. A pretty singing doll, Olympia. But today, she was Oscar. Today, mischief was what she would have to aim for, not singing perfection, which was better at the current stage of her training.

At the current stage of her training, she could outsing half of the world's most famous sopranos. In a few years, there would be no competition for her. In a few years… would she be willing to devote years to this cause? Of course she wasn't certain – the silly girl still didn't believe that he had found an equal in her when it came to an entrancing voice.

Silly little girl.

Erik sighed deeply, retreating deeper into the shadows. Destined to shine she was, there was no doubt about it, created for the light. But wasn't he already insane? What harm could another insane desire do to him? Her faults and weaknesses he could repeat to himself like a mantra to protect him, as he could say the things that would be put at stake if he would ever even dare to imagine… to imagine…

But could have imagined her rousing success? Who could have conceived of the glory of her gracing the stage, the child defending the sorceress Ulrica with a bell-like voice filled with innocence, the boy toying with evil and taunting it while surrounded by guests? What was so wonderful about her? What was it about her that was worth giving up the last shreds of his peace of mind for? Why could he not find satisfaction only in owning her voice, which he had guided as carefully as a mother might guide her child on its first steps, so that it might not fall and injure itself? Her voice sounded as an angelic praise to his genius, but somehow, it didn't grant him happiness. Months ago, it would have. Months ago, he hadn't allowed her to get so close to him.

Months ago, he didn't love her.

Actually, he didn't know whether it was love or not. Erik had never known love, had never given or received any of it. Whatever he had seen of emotion or understood of it was through music, art. But there was no point, was there? She had lasted so long in his presence only because she had no idea of who… _what_… he was and what he had been. It was folly, it was nonsense, it was madness… it was frustrating to even think of it, the irrational belief that she could care for him even if she knew everything, that she could accept him and stay…

Stay…

On several occasions, he wanted to send her away or not to call her anymore. After all, it was a simple matter of dumping the phone. He could get a new one anytime and she had no other means of contacting him. Eventually, she would give up on him and move on. But the very thought of her and the _wonderful_ Viscount he now spotted amongst the crowds with three other people who appeared to be his companions was, for some reason, out of the question. A reason… a reason for that was that he would slow down her studies, distract her…. Lead her away… offer her things normal women want and dream of…

But was she a normal woman, the little nightingale? Perhaps he idealized her a bit too much. She was too timid, too easily defeated, too unable to believe. She had beauty, yes, but she would still be an unnoticed little mouse if there wasn't her quiet resolve when it came to work. And her voice. Without it, she would never stand a chance in the theatre business, where sharp elbows to nudge others out of your path to stardom were the key factor to success. But what need had she of such a thing? After all, he would bring the managers of every theatre to her feet. He would lay down the world at her feet.

His own devotion to her was destroying him, and the worst part was that he knew it and was unable to stop himself from traveling further down the path that could only lead to ruin for them both. Erik thought he had heard once that people should allow their loved ones to choose for themselves… but Christine, if left on her own, wouldn't survive very long, not inwardly. Some part of her would resign; she would lose her passion and be doomed to forever languish in the shadow of lesser creatures. Even if that fool viscount of hers, who observed her with a sickeningly adoring expression as she sang, wouldn't understand that it wasn't her destiny to simply be known as "the wife of the Viscount de Chagny", or, god forbid, the wife of someone even lesser.

_So, Allah truly does exist and he punishes you with this torment, Erik._ He thought to himself, slumped against the wall, shutting his eyes tight.

The applause of the crowd only made it clearer to him. There was some kind of sick irony in this, he knew, and somewhere far above, in a different realm, the creator was having a very good time playing this practical joke on him.

_Christine, Christine, Christine…_

It wasn't a prayer, but it had become somewhat of a lucky charm to him, he knew. Never in his life had he wanted anything as much as he wanted her, success and music be damned for the moment. But if he revealed all to her, if he showed her who exactly lurked beneath the mask – for he knew she hadn't forgotten about it and knew of her wondering thoughts as if they were written across her face – he couldn't let her go. The last straw was that if she would be terrified and attempt to flee – which she would – she had the means of ruining him through her writing. That was not something he could allow. All he wanted was his peace back, his quiet enjoyment of the enormous success he had in the world of music.

And she who had stolen it had no way of giving it back other than coming back with it.

_Full of love_

_my heart throbs,_

_but still discreet_

_it keeps the secret._

_Neither rank nor beauty_

_will seize it._

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

_Tra la la la la la la…_

On stage, the petite page scurried away after revealing the king's disguise.


	27. Chapter 27

This is long overdue, I know, but I knew I had to write it today, or else I wouldn't have time to do it. I am very glad for the support the readers of this story give me – guys, I love you all. This chapter is a little homage to the musical, I suppose, but it won't be following the same plot bunny… at least not entirely.

Thank you for waiting, I hope to have the next chapter finished sooner than I had this one!

X X X

**Chapter 27**

X X X X

The moment when her friends fought their way into her dressing room, bursting in like a cannonade, was what made it worth in the end.

"You did it! You actually did it! Chrissie, you made me proud, girl!" Meg screamed from the top of her lungs as she lunged herself at her friend, who was in her second costume – the one for the masquerade, a boy's attire of gold and yellow – only the mask and hat lying on her vanity table, her face still covered in thicker make-up than she would like.

Her dressing room was actually roomy, large, and soon to be filled with the many flowers that kept being brought in. there were many admirers attempting to force their way backstage, it seemed, but her private area was off-limits to all outsiders, though she had been thoughtful enough to ask the staff to let the four people she had pointed out in. and Meg´s white low-cut dress was difficult to miss.

"Wonderful, Christine," Philip said to her, kissing her hand in an old-fashioned way, "I would actually have a proposal for you after this.

"Hopefully not _the_ proposal, honey," Sorelli warned him before kissing Christine on both cheeks, having forced her way past them all.

The Count almost laughed, but not quite. "I meant that Covent Garden would certainly be glad to have you, if you considered giving our stage a chance. Rest assured that you would be prima donna within a week"

"What about Ms. Giudicelli?" Christine frowned. "I thought she was your leading lady."

"Yes, but recently, we lost the chance to premiere a new opera of Erik's because we couldn't afford to lose her, having no one to replace her with. Now, I don't claim to know the first thing about vocal training, but even I can tell you that you have a voice that is far more pleasant than that of Carlotta. Plus, you would be closer to home that way. What do you say?"

"I'm afraid the choice doesn't really lie with me. My teacher decides most things about my progress." She added a diplomatic smile to keep the count from being offended. Rather, he seemed to be a bit crestfallen.

The Count nodded curtly "I happened to read your article – be certain that if I get a chance to talk to Erik anytime soon, I will attempt to convince him to allow you to accept the offer I've made."

Meanwhile, Meg had thoroughly checked that their flowers had arrived and presented them to Christine personally before flinging herself into the soprano's chair. "I know you like tulips. Anyway, enough with the business, you two. My only question is if your charming teacher happens to have promised to grace you with his presence tonight."

Christine felt her cheeks redden a bit, thus promptly turned away and busied herself with placing her hat on its stand and searching for her day clothes a bit before answering. "I honestly have no idea. You could say that my schedule is always open to changes."

"Meaning that he's the boss." Sorelli translated, straightening her long silken dress a bit. Christine actually envied Sorelli´s ability to maintain an immaculate appearance after over two hours of sitting and watching.

"Figures." Meg muttered, "Now hurry up and get dressed, Chris, because this calls for a celebration." The brunette grinned toothily. "I always knew you had it in you, honey. I wasn't always sure what "it" actually was," she dodged a nudge from the blonde, but it was all in good fun, "but I knew it was there."

At that point, Sorelli coughed discreetly and attempted to pull Meg to her feet. "Anyway, we won't keep you, Christine. I'm sure Raoul wants to congratulate you privately, which is why he's pretty much giving us the silent treatment now." She said with a wink at her would-be brother-in-law, who appeared a bit embarrassed.

But Meg finally understood and hopped to her feet. Philip offered Sorelli his arm, which she accepted without theatrics, and the trio made their exit with a final congratulation. Raoul, who had indeed been standing in the corner, a bit forgotten, finally moved to embrace his girlfriend, though the hug was certainly tighter from Christine's side. She finally realized just how much she had missed him throughout these months.

"Christine, I couldn't believe my senses tonight." His voice, muffed because of her now loose hair and close embrace, reached her. Finally, they released each other, but their hands remained together. "I feel I must apologise to you."

Her curls shook. "There is no reason for that."

"But of course there is. I feel as if I've been selfish." The Viscount sighed, "Had I any idea that you had such ability, I would never have questioned your absences and your distancing from me, painful as it was."

The blonde soprano smiled. "Raoul I… I really care about you." It wasn't exactly what she intended to say, but it was sufficient.

"I know. And I promise to support your career one hundred percent from now on. You seemed happy on the stage."

"I was too nervous."

"You were completely charming." Raoul announced and flashed her a smile. "And now that we have made that clear, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, allow me to invite you to supper in the company of your friends, my brother and me. Tonight, we celebrate your success."

The reaction she gave wasn't exactly the smile the Viscount had hoped for. Instead, Christine paled distinctly at the mention of leaving, though she made some feeble attempt to conceal it. Inwardly, she remembered the last time she had left with Raoul and the scene it had caused.

Receiving another message about her incompetence and lack of devotion would likely mean that she had wasted her last chance.

And somehow, she didn't want that.

Because Raoul was right – she enjoyed singing on the stage. She liked the easy flow of her Italian, adored the costumes she was allowed to wear and felt the emotion of the theatre with a natural talent.

And the Viscount witnessed the failed attempt at a nonchalant smile with concern. There was distinct fear in that expression, he knew, though perhaps Christine herself didn't know what exactly she dreaded.

"That would be nice, Raoul, but I need to wait for word from my teacher." Somehow, she seemed unable to speak the name Erik in his presence. "I don't want him worried about me and I kind of hoped that he would attend tonight's performance. You know that he usually doesn't show to people. In fact, I'm not aware of him meeting people in person, aside from me, so…"

"Well, then, the four of us can wait for you in the main foyer. I'm certain Erik won't keep you long – I don't see what criticism he could give tonight. You were truly stunning. I'll go tell the others."

As the Viscount turned to leave, Christine remembered herself, that though she would wait, it was highly doubtful that Erik would approve of her going out with her friends after such a difficult performance, but he was gone before she could call out anything besides the first part of his name. with a slight sigh, Christine turned to collect the trousers and blouse she had arrived in. she regretted that she didn't have much time to shower, as her costume was cold and slightly sweaty now, but the heat rose into her body again in a moment.

"Perhaps I am wrong, but an outright refusal could have given the poor Viscount some hint about your intentions."

Christine turned to see where the voice was coming from, unsuccessfully. "It's highly impolite to eavesdrop and even ruder to hide in a lady's dressing room when she is about to change." She called with some frustration, but her nerves got the better of her. If he had heard the first part of their dialogue, he might have misinterpreted it as a declaration of putting her personal life before her work.

"True, but a distinct baritenor such as that is hard to ignore. How can you stand the nasal sound he tends to make when he goes into his head voice?" Erik commented casually from the abandoned sofa in the corner.

As usual, his appearance, though flawless in its theatrical nature, was shrouded by the dark colours he wore. Black from head to toe, though there appeared to be a white shirt hidden beneath his suit somewhere. It seemed that he never dressed casually, even when there was no one to see and admire the clearly expensive clothing. What struck the eye after that was the shock that the ivory mask he wore on his face presented, which was carved in a spectacular fashion, hinting at details of a high-cheeked face, though never showing more than clues.

Christine almost had a heart attack.

Then, her eyes almost fell out because she was staring so much. There were several major questions distinguishing themselves from the whirl of millions of minor ones on the tip of her tongue.

Suffice to say it wasn't a good moment for the health of several of her body parts.

As for Erik, there appeared to be some degree of mischievous glee rising into his eyes at the sight of a woman gawking at him in a not so unpleasant way, but it was his anger that was first and foremost.

"Close your mouth, Christine, you'll be ill if you draw too much cold air and then you won't be able to sing for a week." With one fluid motion, he rose and swept towards her, grabbing the coat from her clothing hanger and putting it around her shoulders. Only then did she realize that the window was open.

"You came through the window?" Considering the fact that she wasn't on the ground floor, it had to be quite a feat.

"That would be telling." Mischief, it had to be. "And you avoid my point. A stroll through nocturnal Paris at this hour and after such a performance isn't good for you. There would be alcohol involved, or at least fizzy drinks. Right now, you would do best not to tire your voice. You are only getting used to this kind of work."

Though the contact was indirect, Christine felt herself shudder slightly… and the feel of trembling fingers certainly wasn't imaginary when the coat was placed on her shoulders. "So you forbid it." Erik was immensely glad that she had chosen that moment to lower her gaze and he took a swift step back, away from her, difficult as that was.

"Quite strictly. There will be many things you'll have to give up for your singing, Christine. Though you aren't much of a drinker, even soda and juices aren't good for your throat. And you are, as you English say, "nuts" if you even think about eating any kind of nuts before singing. That goes for chocolate and chewing gum, too."

"Chocolate too?" Christine said, horror-struck. So much for her stress-reliever.

But Erik seemed to consider her terrified countenance amusing. "Only before singing." He said, with much more kindness.

"But what am I supposed to tell my friends?" she asked, unaware of the change in his voice. "They won't just let me go off alone and if they know you're nearby, I'm sure some of them will certainly demand to see you."

"I submit to no one's demands." _Except yours._ "And if you have trouble talking your way out of this situation, I suppose I could make an exception this time and escort you to your hotel. But you would have to leave your companions a note. You wouldn't want them worrying about you now, would you?"

Christine hurriedly nodded, unable to even understand why it sounded so logical and convincing, other than the fact that she had a one-of-a-kind opportunity to spend some time with Erik that likely wouldn't involve training and commands.

Surely they would understand that one doesn't refuse such a chance.

"But I can't leave in my costume. Would you… please turn around so that I can change?" Unknown to her, Erik's ghostly pale face had gained at least as much colour as hers had minutes before.

The black figure turned around hastily, not as gracefully as it usually would, and moved to close the opened window and pull the curtains over it, unwilling for anyone – though there was really no one there – to see Christine not properly dressed. But though the reflection was faint, he was unable to escape the image of Christine unbuttoning her shirt with half-numb fingers before shutting the curtains. For a moment, even Erik's hand hesitated. The sight that he could only dream of would be within his field of vision without her ever realizing it – as she was busy fumbling with the buttons – and there was a new wave of feeling that rushed through him.

Too carnal to be love, though it wasn't that far from it.

Nevertheless, Erik won the battle with the roaring beast within his chest and shut his eyes tight before forcibly pulling the curtains together. If it was any other woman… but Christine was different. Christine was pure. And she was still too much of a child to be able to comprehend the heat he felt push away the iciness of even a corpse-like body.

Meanwhile, Christine managed to replace the upper part of her costume with a blue blouse and vest and swiftly pulled on her jeans and boots. For her, it was casual clothing, but after all the recent dressing-up, she found it natural.

"All done." Erik's eyes were back to normal, no longer pained when they returned to her. Christine was pulling the sleeves of her cloak on – nights in Paris weren't that warm.

"Good. Let us depart." He said briskly, hearing the approaching footsteps far long before she did and not at all looking forward to hearing the boy's would-be-tenor voice once more. And, surprisingly, he strolled directly to the would-be-baroque mirror hanging from the nearest wall. Undoubtedly, he did something to it, as the glass couldn't have clicked and vanished on its own accord.

Bewildered, Christine looked from him to the mirror and back.

"Old tunnels used during wars. This one leads through the basement of the theatre and then we will be able to escape unwanted attention."

She gaped. "How do you know these things?"

"I once strived to become an architect. I failed." Erik said, with an air of unwillingness to dig further into his own past. "Come," With a graceful motion, a gloved hand was extended towards a near-spellbound spectator of the magician's show. "I promise I will lead you out of here safely."

And Christine, of course, took the hand, which gripped hers only slightly, but firmly, and pulled her into the passage with the gentlest force. By the time Raoul managed to get into the dressing room after calling for Christine several times and not receiving an answer, the mirror was long closed.


	28. Chapter 28

This, folks, is a chapter you will come to loathe me for. It didn't come that soon, it has a cliffhanger that you will despise and I will be terribly busy with my finals – graduation is hereby upon me, folks! – for the next two weeks, thus I will be thoroughly unable to update, let alone write. and, as you will see, the next few chapters will prove crucial.

You will like, however, that I have discovered just what a turn I want this story to take, so I have the plot worked out to a satisfying degree. That doesn't mean, however, that there won't be difficulties writing this. But I do intend to finish this fic, I promise!

X X X

**Chapter XXVIII**

X X X X

In retrospect, a trek through the long-hidden passageways of the Paris opera house of which no one knew along with the enigma of a man that interested her on many levels wasn't as exciting as it by right should have been.

The corridors were anything but clean and well-lit, though there was some doubt as to if they were infested with rats or different kinds of vermin. After all, the Palais Garnier had a certain standard and it was doubtful that these passageways were completely untended to. Doubtful, but not impossible, of course.

Nevertheless, Christine wasn't remotely afraid of the dark journey, though she would never have dared to venture into this place on her own. With Erik's grip on her wrist steadying her, she soon pulled her hand slightly closer, closing her fingers around his, a gesture that was returned only long seconds afterwards.

She found that while she was distinctly unaware of where they were going and how they would be able to exit the opera house without encountering anyone, she didn't care enough to ask at the current moment. Had she been alone in those strange passages, however, she probably would have been in hysterics already. Each corner and corridor looked the same, lightless, almost without difference, leading deeper and deeper underground. And if they were still above the ground, it seemed that they were already ten floors underneath it.

Erik, of course, didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest by this way of escaping – and if she knew just how convenient these passages were compared to some alternative escape routes he had been forced to take in the past, she would probably hold her tongue. But, all in all, she was to be complimented for taking such a shock with relative ease.

Whether it was minutes or hours – or even days, for that matter – before they reached what turned out, under Erik's hand, to be a sort of door, there was no telling. However, Christine finally spotted the night sky and breathed clearer air, thus she understood they were now outdoors. Fortunately, it wasn't raining this time… but that didn't mean she saw anything more of Erik than a blackish shape in the night, leading her away from all lights – she would never have dared to pass through the darkness on her own, that much was clear to her. and in another few minutes, Christine realized that they actually weren't heading to a car, as she had believed previously, but were walking through the night quite undisturbed.

Dimly, the rational part of Christine began to realize that she was supposed to ask just where she was being led, as she had only received vague instructions about how to get to her hotel. Erik didn't seem to share her problem with orientation. Eventually, she realized that they were entering some building, apparently from the back, and before she knew it, she was ascending several flights of stairs in a slightly old-fashioned but fashionable Parisian apartment building.

The apartment they entered was on the top floor, and Erik politely offered her entrance first. Even in the darkness, Christine saw that it easily rivaled the one she had visited briefly in Milan in lavishness, but also in good taste, this time in shades of red and brown and dark gold, but never overdoing it. Then again, Erik had mentioned something about architecture and his interest in it, if she remembered correctly, so perhaps she shouldn't be so surprised.

The door closed softly behind them and, as the lights slowly but almost miraculously turned on on their own accord, the first thing Christine noticed was a violin. Well, the noticed the black piano it was lying on first, but the violin definitely caught her attention immediately afterwards. It was beautiful. It brought back memories of her father. Somehow, it seemed very similar to the violin he had had.

A shade almost swept past her behind her and she discovered, after an almost silent gasp, that it was Erik who had startled her. she had never truly forgotten that he was present; of course, she had simply become too adjusted to his presence in his brief absence. And now that he was looking at her, directly at her, almost as if nothing else existed, the full impact of it hit her again. this was certainly something different.

"I apologize for inconveniencing you by bringing you here, Christine, but as you were already with me, it only seemed convenient…" At first, she didn't really understand. Then, she spotted the carefully and apparently lovingly arranged papers he moved to give her. strangely, though, he carefully avoided making even the slightest contact with her and almost jumped back once the sheet music was within her grasp. And that was what it was, really – sheet music. "We should start working on your concert repertoire soon, as I doubt the first offers will take long. Not after tonight, certainly." There it was again, that mischievous glee, showing that he was right and had known he was right long before the fact that he was right had been acknowledged by others.

Erik observed her with unblinking eyes as she managed to look away and take a peek at the songs he had given her. And Christine appeared very lost after discovering that the list didn't end at number ten. "Is something wrong, Christine?"

"There… there are too many." she said feebly.

But Erik laughed – and Christine found herself stunned for the second – no, the third time in one night. The first had been when he had appeared, the second when he had shown her a way to disappear… the third was now. While his clearly tenor voice suggested a high laugh, when he lost control of it, however briefly, as it was now, the timbre of it dropped from the heavenly heights to a more earthly, almost baritone-like sound that was still nowhere near unpleasantness. Now that was unfair.

"I am aware of that. However," His eyes positively sparkled. That wasn't anywhere close to unpleasantness, either, but it was far beyond the border of "improbable" and nearing "impossible" as far as Christine was concerned. "I have merely given you a variety of songs and arias that would be acceptable for your current level of training and experience. We can learn any of those you wish. I leave the ultimate choice to you."

That suggestion had crossed the border of "impossible" at rocket speed and was plummeting into the realm of the unknown beyond that. Christine's hold on the papers faltered and several slipped from her grasp. Her movements appeared almost absurdly sluggish to her in comparison to Erik's, as he was at her feet collecting the papers before she herself was able to crouch and take them. Then again, it could be the current state of events that was hindering her powers of speech and movement.

Thus it was that she didn't notice their sudden close proximity or didn't have any real thought of being bothered by it. But Erik, plainly said, noticed it, and almost froze for a moment. the innocent, feathery weigh of a stray lock of her hair that brushed against him all too briefly, the scent of her perfume, the sound of her breathing… a thousand different things she was apparently oblivious to. It was an unintended moment of anything that never even bordered tenderness or something of the sort, but it was the most he could hope to receive.

Christine collected the papers, along with those she was being handed, and mumbled an apology before she realized that Erik was paying her words no true heed, which wasn't that strange, as they were rather incomprehensible even to her, but that he was perfectly still in his own kneeling position and was simply watching her with a strange expression… or at least a very peculiar glint in his eyes. It was almost like a controlled wariness, as if she was about to lunge herself at him (she felt a bit of blood rush to her face) and attack.

And then, there was a… she felt more blood rush to her cheeks, but she really couldn't find any other expression for it than that the untouchable, always immaculate Erik had something quite close to the eyes of a lost puppy at that point. Not really trusting the finder, wary should he be kicked away again, but also hoping, fiercely hoping…

Now, it wasn't that she had never considered heeding Meg´s words or that she was completely unfamiliar with admiration or crushes – and even without knowing his true face, Christine could easily admit that, mask aside, Erik was desirable. Very desirable, if you were into that whole tall, dark and mysterious stranger thing. Which every woman was, really. Not to mention that he was very knowledgeable, cared about things she herself was quite fond of and was so… so…

Intense.

Yes, that was the word.

But Christine had never entertained thoughts – fantasies, more likely - about anything further developing between them than a strange friendship, for two simple reasons. The first was that, when it came down to it, she knew less than she would like about him, personally. Erik never answered questions about his past. He never let anything slip. If it didn't suit his purpose, he shut her inquiries out as effortlessly as he did everything else. Heck, she didn't even know his last name! but then again, she knew _him_ well enough. What he liked and disliked, how he thought – to a certain degree – and, clearly (damn blushing) that he didn't find her presence offensive, otherwise he would have never allowed her into his private dwellings. The second reason was simpler, even.

Can't - Raoul. Won't. Wouldn't want to… what? Make things more difficult between them? Stranger?

No. it was a certain no. not even a maybe or a could be. No. certainly no. no reason to suggest otherwise.

Why was she thinking that again?

And as her proximity didn't lessen, something subtly began to struggle in Erik, struggle against the rationality and restraint that he had been able to uphold for the long weeks. It reasoned that since Christine didn't appear to be as offended or as embarrassed by the current situation, there was no true reason to change the current situation for a less pleasing one, was there? And, her proximity notwithstanding, there was something very pleasant about watching her look at him with no anger or resentment, only an intense curiosity.

She was the only woman who ever would.

All others had screamed.

His mother had screamed in the beginning, before he realized why and ran away from her. it hadn't saved her life, after all – she had eventually committed suicide after she had been claimed by insanity in some wild quest to seek his forgiveness. But as much as he pitied her, he couldn't bring himself to believe that she had truly come to regret her early treatment of him.

The first girl he had hoped to love had been sent to her death as well, had fallen… fallen… fallen because he had fallen for her, undeserving as she was of even that. She had been a vain little thing, believing he avoided her because she wasn't pretty enough, always messing with his studies, always asking, demanding, then pleading… driving him mad. She died after following him home and asking him about the mask. True, he had had a hand in that, indirectly, but she had slipped from the balcony on her own. She had underestimated the situation and overestimated the height of the railings protecting her from the fall.

But Christine wouldn't die. He wouldn't allow Christine to die by not allowing her to see. Because Christine was deserving of his love. Christine was his magic singing doll but also much, much more. Like a child learning to care for a particular toy, he had followed the path of Pygmalion and learned to adore his perfect creation.

"Christine…" he found his voice before Christine did, "do you… do you like those, Christine? If you don't, I can find some more for you… or rewrite some a bit higher, so you won't have problems with your chest voice… anything you would like…anything… you can have anything you wish for…"

Fingers timidly touched the hand Christine used to support herself. Gloved, but still, it was contact… contact… what did that mean? But thinking was difficult. Still, Christine was beginning to realize that they were beginning to stray from their original topic slightly to a direction she was thoroughly unfamiliar with.

She didn't resist, thereby allowing a hand to close over hers, forcing her to shift her position slightly, so that she now had to lean forward a bit to regain her balance. It was a mechanical motion, but supported by that of Erik, who now had her formerly supporting hand in a firm grasp and slowly raised it, clasping both of his hands over it, but one might think he believed her to be more fragile than glass from the way he handled her.

"What… what are you saying?" Forming simple sentences was the best course of action, certainly. No twists. No trick questions. Thinking simply was simple… or simpler than complex thoughts.

If Erik had moved closer, she hadn't noticed it, but she certainly was suddenly aware of their proximity and couldn't understand just how had such a thing managed to evade her attention for so long… or was it only a short moment?

Time crawled.

But "Christine… Christine…" was the only reply Erik gave her for a few seconds, each mention of her name slightly quieter, slightly more… prayer-like? She had never been worshipped in her life, but she could now fully imagine just what that must feel like. It wasn't entirely likable. There was a slight frantic edge to the whisper. It was more like… an addiction.

"Christine… if you were… if you were to love me, I would give you anything you wanted… anything in the world…"

Erik saw her almost wince, as if a surge of invisible electricity had passed through her, though, in all likelihood, it wasn't something not to be expected. After all, it wasn't likely that she received such… declarations? He supposed it counted as a declaration of love, though it was far closer to a plea. A plea for mercy… and really, a plea for her affection. Her love wasn't required, not completely, not yet, as long as she would allow him to be with her, which was already more than enough, but knowing…knowing that there was no more pretense between them, because she had to know… simply had to understand that there had been no one before her who had managed to move him to such a degree.

That with her, it seemed there were no limits to what he could achieve, no border he couldn't cross, and the word "impossible" flew out of his vocabulary with the greatest ease.

That, he discovered through painstaking means, was classified as love.

And right now, it was enough that she knew of it, that she understood, that she didn't run away… that she knew only a fraction of just how precious she was to him. Surely she was the last of her kind, the merciful creature staring at him with her wide eyes, almost helpless.

She still couldn't find her voice, apparently, despite the slowly tightening grip on her hand. Only several things were coursing through her mind.

The reasons she had constructed for herself as to not even imagine such a possibility weren't among those things.

First and foremost, Christine was wondering whether or not she had stumbled into some sort of daydream. Never before had she been shown any sign of anything else than mild friendship or good humor from Erik… and now, here he was, in front of her, begging…

Erik begging. That was strange. Those words didn't seem to belong together. Not at all.

What was she to do?

Now, were she a romantic heroine, she would most likely search her soul for her feelings for Erik, discover love, hesitantly acknowledge it and even more timidly admit it at such a perfect moment as this one. But Christine wasn't a romantic heroine – nor did she have the courage right now to search her soul. She didn't feel love, only shock and a slight tinge of fear.

Love? He loved her? Surely that couldn't be. Aside from her voice, there was nothing remarkable about her, and even the voice was his doing, not her talent. There had to be some kind of mistake. She could be the student, not the lover. Not that…

But again, little reasons flooded her mind. What was the harm in saying yes, though she wasn't certain if her shaky "maybe" qualified as even half a yes? When would she be offered everything she could ever want again, truly? When would she be offered music and passion and… and all she had been missing in her life before he had entered it, really? When would she receive an offer to make her life complete?

That was convenience. That was symbiosis.

That wasn't love.

But something tugged at her. something all women felt when attracted to a mysterious stranger. Fascination. She was intrigued. He was all that she wasn't and there was a longing to discover… to uncover…

Who was he, really?

Knowing she would never be forgiven if she would take matters into her own hands, she asked: "Would… would you show me your face if I wanted that?"

And Erik, as if a whip had cracked nearby, retreated slightly, like a beaten animal, saying: "You wouldn't want that, Christine."

"Why?"

And she was wonderful, the childish innocent, in her inquisitive manner, as if she was asking why she shouldn't touch fire while she wanted to. It was adorable and also positively infuriating. But she wasn't refusing him! She wasn't turning away. So Erik could muster the strength to be patient with her, to make her understand.

"Christine," oh, how he relished saying her name again and again! "I trust that you will not take this matter outside of this room." She nodded, almost eagerly. "This mask… no matter what you might think of it, it isn't simply for show. If… if circumstances were different, I would most certainly show you my face. but my face is not something for eyes as innocent as yours."

Cryptic, vague answers. She didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

And, to her senses's discontent, he withdrew completely with a tired sigh. "You have once asked me why I haven't chosen to make my living on the stage instead of behind it, why I do not pursue a career in the vocal or instrumental department. It isn't because of lack of skill; I can say that with pride. It is because of this," he gestured towards the mask, "that I will never sing for anyone else. only for you, Christine. I can sing for you whenever you wish it. Whatever you wish."

And the significance of the aria of the music box hit her. back then, he hadn't been certain about his feelings. Back then, only music could foreshadow what would happen… it was, in a dark way, quite romantic. But Christine's gaze and attention remained on the mask. Some comprehension came, but she truly couldn't imagine that a scar, a disfigurement – whatever caused him to believe he had to conceal his face permanently – would be so horrible that it could be too much to bear.

Even as she made to move closer to it, Erik itched away slightly, casting a warning glance at her hands. "Don't, Christine. You haven't the slightest inkling of what you ask of me. You have no right to ask that of me! I offer you everything but that. Everything and anything but the sight of my face."

"But… why?" Christine asked, perhaps slightly lamely, but honestly. In her eyes, one flaw couldn't be so damaging. Perhaps it was merely proof that fate existed – that a man of so many talents, so gifted and wonderful, would have one flaw he couldn't fix. Nevertheless, she found it slightly patronizing that he made the choice for her.

The childishness of the answer almost matched that of the question. "Because… then you would go away. Then you would…" Erik didn't finish. It was too terrible to voice, let alone to voice in front of Christine. The thought of her dying was unthinkable. But he would never risk it. "I would have you care for me just a little, Christine, not despise me."

"I could never despise you." Christine said quietly, taking care to allow him to see that her hands weren't moving anywhere near his face.

Again, the tired sigh, making him appear older, but just for a second. "Others have believed that as well. it is bad luck, my face. ill fate. And the mask is like… like a charm against harm, you could say. Bad luck comes when it's removed, Christine. And I… I would like to remain fortunate… at least tonight."

With one fluid motion, Erik offered her his hand and gently helped her to her feet, looking at the sheet music in her hands, desperately avoiding catching sight of her face at the current moment. he wouldn't break… he would become angry at the sight of her disappointment.

_Monster… freak!_

It would hurt too much to hear it from her, so he had to remain firm. She was there, she was alive… she was there.

"Your…friends," the word came out with difficulty. "are probably distressed about your disappearance by now. It a tabloid decides to make a story out of it, it might grant you more offers. If you wish, I can escort you back to your hotel, or… or, if you aren't feeling up to the journey right now, there is a guest room here. it has never been used, but it has everything you could need tonight… though I'm afraid you would have to sleep in your current clothing there." Perhaps it was her already overreacting imagination, but if a blush could be detected by looking into one's eyes, Christine was fairly sure that one was present on Erik's face, though it appeared that he was more distressed than embarrassed and more because of the fact he couldn't provide her with something she would require than the fact that any other man would point out first – that she would likely be forced to sleep in her undergarments or, better yet, nude.

But if a story was to hit the papers, it should be a good one, not a mediocre one, Christine knew, as it wouldn't be that good for publicity. Or was she simply finding loopholes in logic? Or…

Just what was she thinking, anyway?

The world seemed to have split into two – the world where Erik reigned, where all was music and beauty and a tender darkness that didn't let one drown in it, but rather, enabled all to see the stars… and the rest of the world, light but shallow, absent of magic, ordinary. And she was in the former of the two now, in a wonderland where nothing was as it would usually be. Today, tonight, she was offered a glimpse into another sanctuary of her… her…

There was no word for him.

Erik was simply Erik.


	29. Chapter 29

Straight As!! Straight As! W00T!!!! I can hereby congratulate myself on successfully graduating with honors. And thus, my dearest readers, I have four months of freedom ahead of me before starting college life – as I have been accepted to one without entrance exams, due to my results. He he he.

Anyway, just saw PotC III, and I regret that I must say that I expected better. I'm not much of a Willabeth fan and while I'm not a die-hard Sparrabeth shipper, the lack of interaction between the latter pair made me slightly sad. But Barbossa rocks my socks from now on. He was THE Captain in this movie, forgive my blasphemy, Jack. Force knows I love you, but Barbossa was incredible. Scratch that, Geoffrey Rush as Barbossa was incredible. Just… stunning.

And, I actually managed to get you all a nice chapter of the phic, where Christine isn't as level-headed as a reviewer suggested she was in the previous chapters. It´s a bit shorter than the last few ones, because I didn't want to start another scene yet – the next chapter will likely focus a lot less on Christine and make up for the absences in this one. Avast, maties!

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**Chapter XXIX**

X X X X

The sun was shining into her face.

Christine hated when that happened while she was sleeping. Her face was no longer one of pleasant relaxation, but crossed with a frown and, as her eyes lazily opened, she was awoken almost fully by the realization that she wasn't in the room of her hotel, but, rather, in a splendidly furnished apartment she recognized only after a moment of observation. Of course, it hit her – she had decided to stay at Erik's home for the night, as she didn't really fancy treks through nocturnal metropolises.

Right?

Backtracking, she recalled the events of the previous evening. _Sang in a world famous opera. Got complimented by friends. Escaped through mysterious tunnels underneath the opera house for whatever reason. Came to another of Erik's apartments. Was given new music. Was told by Erik that he loves me. _

And, reaching that particular recollection, her eyes snapped open fully.

_Wait… __**what**_

She slipped down from the bed and threw her blanket aside – she couldn't remember covering herself with it after practically diving into the bed, exhausted, so she assumed Erik had placed it there. That was right – he had shown her the bedroom and then retreated from the room to play something pleasant on the piano. Some sonata by Beethoven had been playing when she lost consciousness. In a brief moment of maidenly panic, she relaxed when she saw that her clothes, albeit rather wrinkly now, were perfectly intact and untouched. Then she flushed at the ridiculousness of such thinking. She somehow doubted Erik would have even thought of such a thing.

Speaking… well, thinking of Erik, she called out for him after leaving her room, but soon found out that the rooms were vacant. The door to what she supposed was his room was locked. The study or the music room, whichever it was, was sealed as well. No sound came from either. She was alone. Not that that was very polite of him, she thought, slightly stung, but upon the sight of a towel and, wonder beyond wonders, even a toothbrush and other hygienic products prepared for her, she felt her face become beet red at such obvious chivalry. After finding the bathroom, another source of frustration to her was the fact that there was not a single mirror in sight. Remembering the details of their previous discussion, she wasn't that surprised.

The moment she emerged from the bathroom, Christine discovered, with never-ceasing wonder, that brand new clothing had also been prepared for her, along with whatever food she might need. The day outside was surprisingly warm and sunny and thus she was presented with a cream-colored sunflower-decorated sundress that would go wonderfully with the shoes she had kicked off her feet without care or consideration the previous night. There was even a matching shawl there to wrap around her shoulders, should the wind bother her. This spectacular gift was so neatly folded, she almost regretted having to unfold it and, upon doing so, a note slipped out of the folds of the skirt.

_I believe __you'll find this clothing to your liking. Stay as long as you like, but please shut the windows and the door securely before leaving, my dear. My apologies for abandoning you thusly, but I have pressing matters to deal with and you needed your rest. Congratulations again on a spectacular performance the previous night and enjoy your day. I will be contacting you in the evening to discuss your choice of repertoire from the lieder and arias I have suggested to you. _

_Erik_

The writing was surprisingly childish for a perfectionist like him – Christine pondered that especially because she had already been shocked to see some perfect paintings that had clearly been done by him on the walls of this apartment and the one in Milan as well. It made him more… human to see that even he wasn't entirely perfect. It still made him closer to perfection than anyone else Christine knew, though. The way the note was written, however, showed no overly loving affection aside from pride and, briefly, Christine wondered if she hadn't imagined it all. Perhaps it had simply been her imagination.

But the dress spoke of something different. Only when she had put it on did she realize that it was nothing likely to be found in a mall – it was clearly silk or some other fine fabric. Christine's brilliant mood darkened slightly, surprisingly. She wasn't certain what to think or do.

Certainly, there was… something… well, something she felt for Erik – and she stopped deceiving herself that it was simple gratitude, because if that were the case, she would have no problem with accepting everything he had given her, including the dress. After all, didn't every woman dream of such things? But… love?

She felt a stab of fear at the word. The idea of love was slightly foreign to her. Infatuation was safe, because she had felt it previously. Affection was something she felt for Raoul. But… love? She had never considered the idea of feeling that for someone she had known relatively briefly. In her mind, love was founded on stability, knowing one another fully, complete trust.

Erik didn't fully trust her, that much was certain. Somehow, she felt that if he had the right to say he loved her, she had the right to ask the removal of his mask of him. Christine had no prejudice against deformities – she had already seen that even without knowing his face, Erik was doubtlessly the most interesting man she had ever encountered.

Love. That wasn't the right word for her current feelings. More like…

_The daring desire to_ _allow yourself to be seduced by the tall dark stranger?_

Again, her cheeks burned.

Perhaps it was just the fact that no man had openly told her that he loved her previously. Some might have gotten close to something like that, but only after a long-term relationship. Erik turned this around. Along with all of her world, it seemed. He told her that he loved her _before_ engaging in a romantic relationship.

Then came the dreaded question – why? What was the thing that deemed her worthy of such affections?

She found herself sorely missing Meg and Sorelli. The former would brighten her spirits with her merry mood and the latter had much more experience with this kind of thing. After all, Count Philip certainly seemed the kind of man that only engaged in serious relationships. One of them would know what to do.

Upon arriving at the hotel she was supposed to be lodging at, Christine found out that she had expected a rather different welcoming committee. There were some policemen around and Philip was conversing with one of them in soft but rushed French. Sorelli was ordering them drinks, looking rather down and Meg, the epitome of miserable moods, was sitting nearby, looking as if she had been crying her eyes out only moments previously. When she spotted and then recognized Christine, however, all her sadness was replaced by an almost desperate happiness and she screamed her friend's name at the top of her voice.

Sorelli almost dropped the glasses she was carrying and quickly placed them back on the counter before attempting to untangle a fervently crying and chattering Meg from Christine, who felt for sure that the air was being squeezed out of her lungs. She couldn't catch a word of what Meg was saying, but it clearly had things to do with her disappearance.

"Mademoiselle Christine Daaé?" Meg released her slightly, but was still hugging her when the policeman who had been talking with Count Philip had arrived. Christine nodded, slightly confused. The man introduced himself as the one in charge of the investigation of her disappearance. "Are you all right, Mademoiselle? You gave your friends quite a fright."

Christine nodded, ashamed of the fact that she didn't think of the consequences of her actions. Of course her disappearance wouldn't just be ignored! "Completely all right, Monsieur. I'm sorry I've given you so much trouble. I was simply held up by some important business and completely forgot to notify my companions of the circumstances. I assure you it won't happen again."

"Might I ask about these circumstances you speak of? You see, we've asked the staff at the Palais Garnier and apparently, no one has seen you leaving your dressing room after yesterday's performance, which, of course, would be impossible."

Christine narrowly avoided biting her lip. Lying wasn't her custom, but ever since she had met Erik, she seemed to need to resort to it more often. "No one notices people once the performance is over, whether they're the prima donna or the last stagehand leaving. I'm not too known in this city, so it wouldn't be hard to miss me."

Meg appeared to be about to object to that and the officer also looked doubtful, but Sorelli interjected at once. "I'm certain that's what had happened, officer." She said with an almost cheery confidence, though she was quite relieved. "I thank you for your kindness and attention. We don't appear to be needing you any longer."

The policeman appeared to be satisfied with that explanation and ordered the rest of the men to depart, with a salute to the ladies and the Count. Christine noticed the absence of Raoul – Meg, her tears drying, explained that he was at the opera, still demanding whether they were keeping something about her disappearance a secret or not for the sake of marketing.

But when Meg had calmed down slightly, Sorelli pulled Christine aside discreetly, away from eavesdropping ears and watchful eyes. She didn't buy the excuse like the policeman had, Christine ruefully realized, though it was only natural. With one long glance, she swept the dress Christine was wearing with watchful and critical eyes, rather like a mother, and then spoke with delicacy.

"Christine, I won't judge you or scold you, but hear me out. I can tell you weren't on your own yesterday and I can guess bits and pieces here and there. But I'm asking you to remember Raoul for a moment. The boy really cares about you – maybe more than I know. If you don't feel the same, just tell him and he'll understand."

Within half an hour, they were sitting in a café not too far away from the hotel, Sorelli now fully informed on the situation, even more so than Meg, who, apparently, wasn't too good at keeping secrets from her best friend and managed to spill a detail or two during their regular soap opera routine.

While Christine sat with her eyes downcast, Sorelli sipped her latte with a contemplative expression on her pretty face.

"You've gotten yourself between two mill wheels there, Chris." She said, frowning briefly and adding more sugar into her coffee.

The blonde sighed ruefully. "I know. But I really don't know what to do, Sorelli. I don't want to… I don't want to hurt anyone, you know. I just wish I'd never met him."

"Who? Monsieur le compositeur or Raoul?

"Perhaps both." Christine mumbled, eating a bit of her tiramisu. She really needed sugar now.

Sorelli, however sympathetic, didn't seem to view the situation as that dire for the moment. "Look, I can't tell you what to do, just fill you in on the rest that you don't yet know. The way Raoul speaks of you, you can bet all you own on the fact that he'll turn up with a ring someday. It might take years or weeks, but the boy really fancies you. But if a man like that told me bluntly that he loved me…" She whistled quietly under her breath. "I'd likely faint then and there. But consider it from this point of view – you'd never have a moment of privacy for the rest of your life. No tabloid on the planet would ever stop prodding you or digging for information about you and him through you. Well, not that they aren't probably doing it already," Christine looked mildly frightened, so she speeded up her words. "but it isn't as desperate yet. The real tsunami is still far off."

"You sure know how to brighten my mood, Sorelli."

"All I'm saying is that you have to consider the future as well as the present. This isn't an easy situation for you, dearie, I know, but remember this – getting pretty dresses and all you want is all well and good, but that doesn't make it love."

Again, Christine found herself close to sighing. That was true, of course. And since when did she have to face this kind of problems? Oh, right, ever since she had discovered… well, everything. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Sorelli shrugged. "I'd leave things as they are for the moment and wait. Meet Raoul, calm him a bit and accept whatever gift or invitation he offers you. Spend some more time with the boy – goodness knows you spend more than enough time with your mysterious stranger already. Just make sure you know what your feelings for each of them are. If either presses you into a love admission, your choice is simple. The bad thing will happen if you'll be unable to decide even then."

Somehow, Christine doubted that things could get worse as far as her love life was concerned. She began to miss the times when there had been no love life to speak of.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter thirty already! Guys, I really am sorry about such a late update, but I was super busy. I got accepted into several colleges, which is great, I had loads of my own vocal training to catch up with and I really need to revise my French now that I have the time. But as today is my birthday (unnecessary info, I know) I decided to be Saint Zerb and write a chapter for you. After this, the story gets complex – you'll see why. Anyway, I am pleased to announce that we are most definitely somewhat past the halfway mark, don't you think? The story is turning out splendidly and I love all you reviewers, so don't hesitate to send another review. And another. And another, while you're at it.

Peace out!

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**Chapter XXX**

X X X X

The general success of yesterday's operatic performance was easily overshadowed by the mystery surrounding the disappearance of one Christine Daaé, visiting soprano and clearly soon-to-be prima donna in the eyes of the critics. The nature of her teacher only added to the general uproar and the moment that the press would discover that she was back and unharmed, the tsunami, as Sorelli had noted, would begin by their search for her current whereabouts. On the other hand, there were few other things that could have been more brilliant a marketing move when it came to advertising Christine's career.

After viewing things from this point of view, Erik actually felt quite guiltless about snatching his protégé away from the crowds of admirers and even her friends. He had not intended to leave her alone in the house that morning, but as she had reacted reasonably well to his rather ill-placed confession, he had deemed her trustworthy for the moment. What a change that was.

Nevertheless, furthering her career was only one of the pressing matters he had to deal with. For one thing, "scouting" the situation within the opera house itself was important. Then, there were other details regarding organizing to be dealt with and he had to see to it that the newest sheet music to his latest opera would get where it was supposed to. Aside from that, as pleasant as it was to know that Christine was so close, it was also tantalizing.

Erik didn't necessarily view their relationship from her point of view, but he understood that he was asking somewhat of a sacrifice from her. After all, he wanted her, not her friends, to add to his life. And he would avoid getting into the center of media attention in the most extreme of ways for as long as possible. The troubling thing was that Christine was now a publicly known persona and he understood well enough that she would likely be the target of the media's pursuit if he managed to evade them, which he would.

Never let it be said that there weren't sacrifices to make.

But there were so many things to make up for all that, even if she didn't see it yet, perhaps. The career she had now was only the start of the worldwide fame that would certainly await her very soon. Thus far, she had been the soubrette on the stage. But within a short time, she would be ready to take over a major part, even a dramatic part, and excel in it.

As for him, there was nothing more he could want in the world other than her love. With that, he would have everything he could ever want. Erik didn't necessarily seek out love, but now that Christine was a factor to consider, he found that he didn't want to cast away the newly discovered sensation, especially when it was practically within his grasp, or would be soon enough. It was a strange sentiment, but it seemed very natural with Christine.

Of course, there were obstacles to overcome.

The first was the phone call. "Erik, tell me where you've taken the girl and bring her back or by Allah I'll call the authorities on you!" It wasn't even noon yet and already Nadir was exhausting himself. He had seen the headlines in the papers, and not only those that dealt with culture. The "Mystery of Soprano's Flight" was headline news almost in every newsagent's in Paris.

More than ever, Nadir was highly annoyed with the small laugh that was the answer he received at first, which said without a word that the police didn't trouble Erik at all. And Nadir knew well he was right not to worry – the masked man was more than efficient at outrunning the world, let alone something as trivial as an investigation. After all, no one knew his name, his true personality, or, heaven forbid, his appearance. That would certainly make him easy to recognize.

"Calm yourself, daroga, or you'll spill your morning coffee." Erik's deceivingly angelic voice said with a hint of teasing, which Nadir didn't find amusing at all. Unnerving was more like it. "Mademoiselle Daaé is all right and should by now be reunited with her friends. No harm has come to her, and none will."

The words rang like a vow, and Nadir appeared to have sensed it. He wanted to repeat the question, but decided against it. Erik was impervious to any mind games, being a master trickster himself, and trying any such foolishness would only endanger his position. Nevertheless, Nadir was determined not to let the matter be. He was back in his own all too expensive hotel – which Erik had secured for him – and had shut all windows just to be certain that none of this conversation would be overheard.

"What are you planning, Erik?" Nadir demanded, but tried to keep his worry in check. Things were moving in a very strange way and the Iranian was now starting to get concerned, not only for the little Mademoiselle, who appeared to be only a lost little girl, bless her, but also for Erik, who was starting to get slightly possessive of his young pupil, whether he realized it or not.

But the answer shook even Nadir, who had been prepared to hear anything. Almost anything. "I love her, daroga." It caused the Iranian to indeed spill his morning coffee over the carpet, but he survived without any permanent damage courtesy of the hot liquid. In fact, it was a miracle that the china didn't come crashing to the ground. "I love her and I told her. And she didn't scream! She didn't die…" The slightly feverish tone that crept into Erik's voice didn't go unnoticed.

_Allah__ have mercy. _"You… you've shown her your face?" he marveled.

"Of course not." Erik scoffed back, as if the very thought was outright foolish. "I said no harm would come to her. Seeing my face would count as harm. To both of us. No, I simply told her that I loved her. And she will come back because she wishes to."

A grave mood took over Nadir. Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't expected this to happen to some degree. After all, from what he had seen of Christine Daaé, she was not only talented, but more than good looking by western standards if slightly too naïve for her own good. And perhaps that particular personality trait gave Erik the hope that she would be able to see past the two flaws he had: his face and his past. If she could put up with his ever-changing personality, there probably was hope in a theoretical world.

But reality wasn't theory. And Nadir understood all too well that once the girl would know all there was to know about who Erik actually was, she wouldn't entertain any illusions and shatter his dreams for the sake of self-preservation. She couldn't be blamed for that. After all, who would want to spend their life in the shadows, dominated by such a strong master? Erik had always been calm on the outside; if not obviously cynical about everything save for his art, especially about emotions.

The devotion to the girl could grow quickly, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. The Iranian knew Erik very well and Erik never gave up something he had set his sights on. In the case of the girl, it could be dangerous.

He was afraid this would happen sooner or later. "Erik," he began cautiously, selecting each word with great care. "I understand your current happiness. But that girl is very young and she doesn't have any idea about many things that concern you. Did you consider that she might react badly after finding out…?"

"Who says she's going to find out, Nadir? If she will, it will be much, much later. Right now, I want her to be happy and to love me." In the Iranian's mind, the two things couldn't be more perfect opposites of each other. "I can give her anything now, anything. She can come to love me, in time. She trusts me already and treats me differently than anyone else has. Why am I even explaining this to you? I love her, that's the bottom line of things. I hope for your own sake that you have no intention of meddling, daroga."

Erik's definition of meddling involved involving himself in any way or interfering. The usage of that word alone was enough to confirm to the Iranian that Erik was completely serious about that. But where was the proof that he also knew the difference between a pretty singing doll he could mend and arrange as he wanted and throw away at leisure and a living, breathing, feeling human being? Relationships weren't exactly Erik's strong suit, though admittedly not only because of his own relative ineptness at them.

"You may announce to the management of the opera house that Christine will start preparing her concert repertoire this month and I would be thoroughly _displeased_ should they not want to consider granting her an evening in their monthly schedule. Of course that doesn't mean I'll have her perform there, but they should prepare for the chance. Take it or leave it. Now be good, daroga, and get back to your breakfast or whatever you have to eat in the morning. I have a sonata to finish writing."

The Iranian didn't even have the chance to protest as the phone turned deaf.

X X X

Raoul de Chagny could be most easily defined as a good man.

He possessed every virtue that could be the pride of a noble bloodline and he would have made a peaceful ruler, had he been born centuries previously. But deep down in his heart, he was more of a titan of romantic literature, destined to fail in his quest, than a proud hero.

The months he had lived with Christine but without her still hadn't been painful on the outside, but as time went, the Viscount began to understand that he was losing the woman he cared about most, and he was losing her rapidly. To music, to Erik. Because it seemed that in the minds of many, Christine included, the name Erik was a synonym of the word music. At first, Raoul had no true fear of it. As long as Christine was happy, it was all that mattered, even though they didn't get to see each other that often. After all, he, as a fervent hockey player knew best that success required training. Long and tiresome hours spent practicing.

And opera singing, though it seemed as if anyone could do it, was no easy task. It was a trial by fire, especially when one had a teacher such as Erik, who seemed to think that as his pupil had talent, the most famous opera stages had to accept her and allow her to perform. It was as if an archer had been granted a new bow and wanted the arrow to soar to the farthest target, thus gripped and pulled the bowstring until it was about to burst. If the arrow wasn't released soon, the bow would break.

Whenever he saw Christine, which was once a week at best, she appeared to be exhausted to a certain point, but was always beaming subconsciously. At the beginning, there seemed to be nothing wrong with this. But Raoul understood what Christine didn't – that she was becoming committed to nothing else but music and that, despite her star status among the singers, her real day-to-day life was beginning to slowly shatter. How long had it been since she had last visited Mrs. Valérius instead of calling or sending a present through him? How long since she had last gone out with her friends?

And how long could it last?

It was as if she was cutting all ties with the past and the normal world, and, as much as it stung, with him as well.

But in his goodness, Raoul didn't blame her or attempt to find fault in her. Rather, he wanted to support her, to help her. After all, Christine was a woman living alone and caring for an elderly lady that was the closest thing to a mother she had. She had a good salary and a nice job, but deserved so much more… she deserved the stage; Raoul could admit that after seeing her. Up there, she shone, just as much as her father, may he rest in peace, would have wished and had predicted years and years ago.

When Christine had vanished just like that, Raoul was the first to react by calling the police after the initial search. He had also spoken with the management of the opera. It wasn't possible for a singer to just vanish like that! But then, he remembered who Christine's teacher was and started to think about it. Doubtlessly Erik would never show himself to him and his companions when it could be avoided and Christine, being his pupil and the only person who ever saw him, likely had to meet with him somehow to get a professional review of her performance. But when she didn't show up until morning, Raoul grew worried.

He couldn't understand the reasons behind this. It was almost as if Erik didn't want her to spend time with him and the others, but that was absurd. After such a performance, even Christine deserved some leisure time. And when she showed up in the morning, unharmed, dressed in different and much more expensive clothes, Raoul forgot all these suppositions and gladly listened to her explanation of her long debate with Erik about the performance and future productions.

They decided to take a relaxing walk through the nearest park – and Raoul noticed just how often they did that when they were together. They went to a public place, as if a café or a restaurant just wasn't comfortable enough for some reason. It also gave the whole event a strange non-comitial air that neither of them really understood.

"So you want to become a full-time performer, the way I understand it." Raoul summarized after patiently listening to that explanation. She didn't even have to nod in response. The young Viscount could see it from her behavior on stage. Her happiness.

"I thought I didn't have what it takes at first." Christine confessed, with much less doubt in her voice than he remembered. "But… I did it, Raoul. Twice already, and it felt… somehow good. Not natural, but it felt right."

It was Raoul who nodded now, as if he understood. "You know I support whatever decision you make, Christine." _Even if it takes you away from me even further._

"I really don't know how to thank you, Raoul. I wouldn't be able to do this without having your support." She sighed briefly, rearranging her purse. She was still wearing the new dress and Raoul had already been told from whence it came. Strangely, the explanation had stung a bit as well. It didn't feel right somehow for her to receive a gift such as this from her teacher when simple praise from him was likely priceless.

It was a strange impulse and Raoul almost felt silly for starting to feel something closely resembling jealousy because of a man who he had never seen and who was very strict and uncompromising. That much was clear even from the brief moment he had talked to Erik on the phone. Besides, he and Christine was diametrically different people in so many ways. He had no cause to doubt Christine. But still, it was an almost alarming thought.

"So you will have time to go back to England for a while? You said that the next performance of your opera was not for two weeks or so." he said, switching topics.

"Possibly, but Erik gave me a whole lot of songs to choose from to study for the foundations of a concert repertoire. Mostly Schubert, but I find myself disliking those for some reason. They are slightly disharmonic in my opinion."

Raoul himself had a very rudimentary knowledge of classical music, but of course he at least knew the name of the composer – and he would have recognized the "Ave Maria" if he heard it. "Looks like leisure is out of the question, then. I had rather hoped that you would have a day or two for me."

"Oh, Raoul! I know I've been neglecting you for some time now and I'm very ashamed of that." Christine said with a light blush gracing her cheeks, but she looked slightly miserable as well. "I promise I'll make it up to you somehow! But I don't think I will be able to these next few weeks. You see, Erik…"

The Viscount smiled and interjected. "I know Erik and his whims, don't worry. And I agree with him in the sense that if you want to be successful as a performer, you have to practice and make yourself known. I understand. But there is something that could make it up to me even if you don't have time for a year."

Poor Christine, blinded by her own fear, not seeing love and devotion when it was looking her in the eyes. "And that would be?"

It was a rather unceremonious way of doing things, unusual as well, but after last night, Raoul had understood that if it had been a different woman, he likely wouldn't have cared as much for her safe return as he did with Christine. Christine was in his heart even if she was far away. He woke with her, he fell asleep with her – it was love, most certainly. And he was now mature enough to understand that it wasn't a puppy-like devotion any longer. It was love for the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That was his belief.

"Christine, I know we haven't been in a relationship for overly long, but I will be open with you – I never denied that I love you and I don't care if everyone knows it. Pursue your career with my blessing and support, but allow me to assist you in whatever way possible and be by your side. I would like to marry you, Christine." He said gently, and didn't falter despite the clear shock written all across Christine's pale face. "Not this instant perhaps, but your word that someday, maybe even years in the future, you will agree, is enough for me."

He wasn't really expecting an immediate answer – the promise of considering the idea would make him more than blissful. Because Raoul was certain. The problem lied in the fact that Christine was not.

Christine remembered Sorelli´s warning about being pushed at that moment. But Raoul wasn't pushing her. Dear, sweet Raoul. He was pledging his devotion to her. And for a fleeting moment, she had the vision of herself entering a grand mansion and being acknowledged as the lady of the house. But then, the vision paled.

"B-but, Raoul… it would be frowned upon if you m-married an opera singer. You are an aristocrat a-after all." Was she dissuading him or persuading herself? She didn't know anymore.

But Raoul gave a light, enticing laugh and his face brightened considerably. Christine couldn't even remember seeing him that happy. "Christine, such days are long past. Do you think I would ever consider you beneath me because you aren't from so-called noble descent? Blue blood amounts to very little these days unless you are a monarch. And besides, Lady Diana wasn't a princess to begin with either. Do you think it will really matter if you are a well-loved famous singer? Opera is a noble genre even in the eyes of the aristocracy. Believe me, Christine, no harm will come of that."

Wouldn't there really? Christine wondered. But she didn't have time to contemplate the possible consequences. She began remembering last evening. And a voice quite different from Raoul´s echoed through her mind.

_If you were to love me, I could give you anything you would ever want…_

Those words rang a little frightening now. Their tone had been far from Raoul´s calm gentleness – it had been a desperate cry, in its own way. Desperate… that word also fitted her attempt to find some kind of possible answer for Raoul´s question.

A long-term engagement to a supreme bachelor was wonderful, especially when that man was Raoul, and a few days ago, she likely wouldn't have hesitated very much. But now, she was in a delicate position. And she began to understand just how quickly her ascent to the heavens of opera could turn into a spinning crash back to the ground. She acknowledged easily that she was nothing without Erik and his tutelage. He was almost literary like a guardian angel watching over her.

An all-seeing angel, apparently, as well, because her phone rang at the precise moment when she willed herself to say something.

X X X X

AN: And there I leave you, folks! I'm evil, I know… hehehe.


	31. Chapter 31

Gah! Writer's block, writer's block! Suggestions and criticism is very welcome now, as I have to plan this story out again! Grr… anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, I like it very much. It is very long and the last part is detailed – no cliffie! Actually, the last part had been written long ago, it just needed a bit of tweaking, so that it wouldn't be entirely musical-like.

Enjoy.

X X X

**Chapter XXXI**

X X X X

Several hours after the moment her telephone rang, Christine was pacing back and forth in one of the unlikeliest of places – a hospital in London.

The call she had received had not been from Erik, as she had feared and suspected, but from an entirely unknown number that turned out to be a hospital… a hospital where Mrs. Valérius was now struggling for survival.

She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown herself, because the doctors had informed her that the elderly lady's condition was critical bordering on the moment when they should really accept the fact that she was lost. Christine refused to accept that. She had sent a message to Erik to cancel every plan he had for her performances and give her time to sort things out in London.

In Paris, Erik was livid. His anger wasn't directed at Christine this time, but at the whole circumstance. The illness couldn't have come at a worse time. Should the lady die, Christine's fixation on her friends and, primarily, the boy, would only increase. But from what Christine had written, it seemed critical, judging by her panic.

Of course, with his money, he could have Mrs. Valérius transported to the best private surgeons and treated in a way that would likely make the queen herself jealous. Securing that was the least of his problems. But it irritated him immensely that the entire situation was out of his hands – that even if he provided everything necessary to ensure survival for Christine's guardian, he couldn't guarantee that she would survive. And, oh-so-conveniently, _that boy_ was there with Christine, readily allowing her to cry on his shoulder in the case of a tragedy.

What he felt for the Viscount de Chagny went beyond dislike now. It was not even anger – it was hatred. The wretched little boy had everything he could possibly want in his life; wealth, looks, opportunities, and still he felt it necessary to take away the only thing that had not been meant for him, as he could not possibly survive such utter happiness as to have Christine at his side when his life was already bordering on annoying perfection. And he didn't even have the decency to be sufficiently foppish or snobbish to make up for his lucky birth.

He spend the entire day and following night like a caged animal, pacing back and forth with a ferocity that would have made even Nadir reconsider bothering him. The aforementioned Iranian called him several times that day, clearly wondering what in the world was going on, as he had been charged with canceling the plans for the day simply on a whim, which wasn't very good for their associates. Fixing a timetable which Erik would bother following seemed to be an impossible task.

Finally, he couldn't stand the wait and the anticipation and dialed Christine's number in London, only to be greeted by the answering machine. The frustration was truly getting on his nerves. It took very many tries until finally, with a clearly shaky hand, someone picked up the receiver at last and the equally shaky answer confirmed that it was indeed his pupil.

"E-Erik? How did you get this number?" Christine asked, but she knew the answer didn't really matter.

Erik obviously didn't feel the need to answer the question anyway. "How is your guardian?" he asked, though he was much more concerned about Christine herself.

There was a long silence before Christine found the strength to speak. "She won't make it." She said in the most miserable tone Erik had ever heard from a living being. It was sheer helplessness. "They've given her every medicine they could… the surgery only slowed down the illness… internal bleeding… she's not even conscious anymore and I… I couldn't bear it." A long and deep sigh came from the normally calm Christine. "I'm such a horrible person. I just… I couldn't watch her suffer anymore."

"Why are you alone at a time like this?" he demanded.

It almost made Christine smile, seeing how well he knew her and could tell her mood from a few words on the phone. "I asked Raoul to stay with her… Meg and Sorelli are still in Paris… and I think… I just needed some time alone. Or maybe…"

"Whatever you wish, Christine, it will be done." Erik said in more soothing tones, using his voice to calm her at least partially. It had a lesser effect than it would have in person, but it still seemed to give Christine courage.

"Could you… could we meet somewhere? I know you're in Paris still, but I think… well, I thought that you might understand how I feel best…"

For a second, he hesitated. But reason won out – after all, it was she who was summoning him, his heart cried out, and that was an opportunity that likely wouldn't be repeated, should he refuse. And what better way to get closer to her than comforting her in times of need. This was what he had hoped for; that she would trust him enough to open up to him and, eventually, treat him no differently than the people she offered her friendship. And perhaps, one day, she could, would put a stop to his one-sided infatuation and return the affection.

"Expect me in three hours, Christine." She never got the chance to object – the phone was deaf suddenly, leaving her to wonder if he had actually meant that.

As with all things he had promised her, Erik kept his word.

Almost precisely when he clock struck six, there was an insisting knock on the door and Christine, her face grim but devoid of tears now, found herself face to face with her teacher, dressed from head to toe in black as usual. She didn't even take true note of the mask – his overall presence surprised her and she was thankful to the degree that she couldn't even ask whether he had an actual private jet or something of the sort, as there was no way he could have come so quickly on a regular line.

"Please come in." she said weakly, noticing that her countenance was being critically studied. But there was concern underneath that scanning; she saw it in his eyes. At least, she thought she did.

Suddenly, she felt somewhat ashamed, because her apartment looked at least as messy as she did at the present moment and Erik was always one for perfection. But the tall dark stranger, as Meg would have called him, refrained from any comments as he waited for her to close the door and reenter the living room. Christine ran a hand through her hair. She didn't even know what had given her the idea to call him.

"I'm sorry to barge into your daily schedule like this, but I…" she trailed off.

But Erik gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Nothing on that schedule was more important than your well-being, Christine. Plans can be altered and meetings rescheduled. You are the most important person in the world for me."

And suddenly, Christine discarded all emotional control that had held her back previously. No matter what kind of relationship there was between them, there were no professional differences that could get in the way of their non-professional friendship. It was an embrace she would never have given someone she knew for such a relatively short time, but she felt that Erik was truly no normal person to her, his public persona aside. Perhaps he had his little artistic whims she had learned to tolerate, but he was different in the way that he understood every aspect of her like her parents might have, only even beyond…

Erik stiffened in the embrace, unsure at first what to do. No one had ever shown him such intimacy, thus he considered even this relatively ordinary gesture something special, something he scarcely deserved, but which, when offered, was not to be resisted. It took him a few moments to adjust to the pleasant sensation of feeling Christine's hair and her warmth so close to him, causing a turmoil of emotion to pass through him, and not all of it as innocent as Christine's intent. But he mastered the darker impulses, knowing they could only lead to ruin. His feelings for Christine went beyond trivial desire, which was a simple animalistic need. He believed that if he was capable of feeling any kind of love, she was receiving all he was capable to give, though it was a love not at all different from worshipping an idol.

"Thank you." Christine said into his shoulder, releasing him slowly with a brave attempt at a smile, though it looked only as if she had a headache if one couldn't decipher her intent. It was also strange how one's perception of another could be altered by something so simple as a touch or a word. Both of those served to calm Christine entirely at last and, momentarily, she actually forgot why she had been so saddened. She faintly recalled that Raoul had also embraced her at the hospital, but the effect had not been so immediate.

It was selfish and bad to be recalling that the man she was clinging to had told her that he loved her, especially in such a sad moment, but Christine couldn't help doing so. She also recalled that she was supposed to sort out her own feelings before deciding, as Sorelli had told her, and something in her was being moved at the moment, something crucial. There was no fluttering heartbeat or butterflies struggling to get out of her stomach, merely the feeling that this was somehow right.

She was uncertain and slowly began to let go, vaguely noticing that Erik was letting her slip from his grip only very reluctantly. It made her stop, and she raised her gave to meet his, the moment frozen. Somewhere in her subconscious, she contemplated that his eyes really did somewhat look like a cat's, if only because of the strange color, but by now, she found it only natural. For the first time since he had arrived, she became aware of the mask, which revealed only the lower part of his very pale and only slightly unnatural-looking lips. For the first time since the visit in Milan, she began to wonder whether his face was equally pale, or if he had an allergy to the sun's rays, or if he had been telling the truth and his face was somehow deformed.

And, as if she had had it planned from the very beginning, or as if she had no doubts about the matter, careful not to move the mask too much, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

That a rigid sensation spread through Erik's entire body would be an understatement. At first, he almost didn't comprehend the depth of what was going on and speculated whether or not it was a dream that was all too blissful not to turn into a nightmare soon enough before confirming that it was indeed reality, as there was no other explanation for Christine knowing what she should be doing when he himself had not the faintest concept. It was strange to feel that his constant awareness and vigilance was slipping away and that his ever-scheming mind was incapable of even the slightest thought. Perhaps he should have kissed her back, but he was incapable of even moving presently.

Christine withdrew slightly, now a bit fearful. It wasn't that she had expected a scene from a cheap romance film, but she had at least hoped for some response that would show her whether this had been right or wrong. She herself really didn't know why she had done that or what she had been thinking, but she definitely couldn't claim that it was an instinctual reaction to the offer of comfort. Not likely, as Raoul had not received any response of the sort for his efforts to calm her.

Somehow, her hands snaked upwards, towards the mask, but by then, Erik had awoken from his reverie and firmly but gently grabbed her wrists. For some reason, she didn't fight the grip that reminded one of handcuffs, merely stared him in the eyes, and, for the first time, none of her emotions or intentions were obvious to even an experienced eye.

"I-I have to see." She heard herself whisper far more courageously than she felt. Christine didn't know exactly why it was important to see. Maybe because she needed more comfort, but part of her believed that it had more to do with the fact that she needed a face to connect with the sound of his voice, his soothing words and his very presence. It was not a question of appearances anymore, merely of her peace of mind. "Please let me see."

"Have to see?" Erik asked slowly, softly. It was as he had feared. She had not given up her natural curiosity for the sake of a harmony between them, no. she had merely been waiting for the opportune moment. A childishness awoke in him, an instinct believing that Christine wouldn't fear, Christine wouldn't cry… Christine wouldn't die… but cool rationality, still dazed a bit by the memory of her touch, overrode such things. He couldn't break her now, but her whim was impossible. "Little Pandora, is it not enough that I am here, that I offer you everything and love you beyond anything? Why must you see… curse you." She barely heard that last whisper.

But, truthfully enough, he couldn't refuse her anything now, not even that horror, and Christine felt the iron grip on her wrists falter slightly in a strange hesitation. "The sight would bind you to me, understand that. You would never be entirely free of me afterwards. Oh, Christine… you have no idea what you ask. But I cannot deny you anything, anything, even what will destroy us both." Finally, the two skeletal hands were removed from Christine's wrists and a chilling anticipation replaced the previous warmth of the atmosphere. He was pleading with her not to do it.

But he didn't understand her need to do it. Perhaps she had indeed begun to fall in love with him, like in the myth of Eros and Psyche, but she anticipated now that his face would likely not be that of a love god, and was prepared for almost anything. At least she believed so.

"Thank you." The strained, teary whisper replaced other words she wanted to say.

And so, with utmost care, she removed the mask.

X X X

Raoul was feeling very miserable at the bedside of Mrs. Valérius. He had called his brother, alerting him to what had happened – he and the girls would be arriving within a few hours. After such a wonderful stay in Paris, now, they seemed to be going from tragedy to tragedy. Christine had almost literally fled from him and now was deep in her misery. She needed his presence now, he felt it, but yet she had chosen to leave.

Without giving him any kind of answer, any kind of hope.

_What should I do?_ He asked the calm, sleeping form of Mrs. Valérius in his thoughts. He saw that Christine's life was being dramatically changed. He saw what she didn't – that she was suddenly morphing into a different person, one who didn't smile and laugh as much as she ought to. And her strange association with the mysterious composer was beginning to draw some of his irritation. Of course he understood the principles of secrecy, but somehow, he believed Christine should have enough confidence in him to confide in him.

No; the answers would have to be revealed. The truth would have to come out, or else Christine would be ruined.

Didn't the man see that he was gathering every aspect of her life under his personal control? It was as if she was some doll, a marionette whose strings he manipulated with utter ease. And, worse, she let him, but willingly or not, that was the question.

The Viscount made his decision. Christine was more important to him than the world and he would not see her suffer. When one of the doctors informed him that Mrs. Valérius was stabilized and needed her rest now, he thanked him greatly and departed.

Christine was the one who needed support now; and he would be damned if he wouldn't give her any. So to Christine he went.

X X X

The scream, cry, whatever it should have been, caught in her throat. Her terror was merely mute, her eyes wide, and she heard her own heartbeat in the midst of the silence. There, in front of her, stood Death in the most curious of shapes, and it was not that which caused her to lose her voice. Death itself could envy such a face, because his face came closer to the interpretation of death than anything she had ever seen. His skin seemed to be but a thin membrane, allowing her to see each and every blue vein. Even during a dissection one wouldn't get a better, clearer view of his skull, which was entirely exposed. And he truly looked like someone… or something… that had escaped the pathologists in the middle of a dissection. A simple gawping hole was where a nose should have been. His lips were twisted, as hideous as his voice was beautiful. The face that had been exposed seemed to belong to a man long dead, perhaps some hero of an ancient battle that had been slain and let to rot on some forgotten battleground. But his eyes showed that there was life within him, perhaps too much of it. The bright yellow eyes seemed to be filled with hellish fires, ready to engulf her for her sin.

His astonishing, unearthly ugliness had been the price God had decided he must pay for the divine talents he had been given.

And, to Christine's utter misfortune, she turned away, which seemed to ignite Erik's rage. Tears dripped from her eyes, fear of what she had seen and sadness when she realized that the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. She now understood everything.

A pair of skeletal but astonishingly strong hands returned her face back to his. But she couldn't see, no, not again… She kept her eyes firmly shut. She didn't have the courage to look at him.

Anger. Rage. Boiling turmoil of despair. "Look! You wanted to see, didn't you, you little viper, so look! Look, feast your eyes on my accursed ugliness! Perhaps you think this is another way of hiding what I look like? That this is just another mask, just for show? Let's take it off together then, shall we, Pandora?" Christine shook her head violently, opening her eyes, sobs escaping at long last. He didn't understand in the slightest, he didn't…he didn't… she was crying for them both, not only for herself. She was crying because she was angry at herself and her own fairytale-blinded stupidity.

She was crying for him as well, because he had chosen an utterly wrong person for the task of loving him, which she perhaps did, but she lacked the strength. She wanted to turn away. "Oh, you have opened the box, you must face the consequences!" He grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, ignoring her almost hysterical struggle. He brought the hand to his face roughly, digging her fingers into his flesh. Christine tried to wrench her hand away, but he held it firmly. Suddenly, he threw her back, leaving her to sob while he paced around the room like a caged animal.

"Why?" he cried out suddenly, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to himself or to her, "Why did you have to look? As long as you thought I was handsome, you would have come back; you wouldn't have had anything to fear! One can get used to anything once enough time has passed… you used to fear my reign over others, over you, but now you are unafraid… but you must stay with me! Do you think I would simply let you go and write about how truly _unique_ I am?" he spat, looking at her like a predator at a wounded prey.

Christine was watching him with fear and increasing pity. He could have been such a great man… but the simple face that society would never accept his face without prejudice was enough to destroy that vision. "I'd never… I'll never say anything to anyone… please…" she whispered, agitated, "I wouldn't do that…"

"Wouldn't you?" he looked at her and laughed humorlessly, with the slightest tinge of hysteria. "Would you believe that I, who had never had faith in the human race, began trusting a stranger and a curious little girl at that! I gave you music no ears have ever heard and you repay me this way!"

"Why me?" Christine sobbed, "Why have you chosen me for this… why did you give me your music? Why me?"

He stopped raging and observed her for a moment. Christine saw that his eyes glittered strangely and then realized that he was crying… he collapsed to his knees in front of her eyes, as if the invisible source of power that had possessed him had left him. As he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a god of thunder, or of an angel of music, but of a very broken man.

"Because I love you, Christine." he whispered, "I love you… more than you will ever know… more than you can imagine… I, who have never loved anyone in my life, because no one had ever loved me… from the moment you first sang on the stage and I heard you… I hadn't seen you, I didn't know your name, but I loved your voice immediately. A love at first sound. Each time we met, you spoke to me with civility, respect, even… you knew pain as well as I did… you became my angel, not vice versa. And suddenly you were the most beautiful creature ever to grace this earth… I have a great weakness for beautiful things, you know… and from that moment on, having your voice wasn't enough…"

Christine had ceased sobbing and was watching him with awe. Never had anyone said such things for her. Each word was filled with such pain and tenderness that she thought her heart would break and she would go mad if he wouldn't stop. Had anyone else spoken such words to her, she would have been amazed, flattered and perhaps even enamored. But the words came from him and she realized that she was afraid of them. His spectacular temper and dominant nature were forces to be reckoned with and now that she had seen their full display, she was certain that if he hadn't realized in time that it had been her who had taken the mask, she would have gotten a serious physical injury.

Erik watched her take the mask and offer it to him with a shaky hand. The gesture was clear. _Take it so that I don't have to look at you. Take it so I don't have to think about what I had seen. Take it so that I can try to forget… _but he knew that no one who had seen his face had ever forgotten. Her eyes showed clear fear – it was way too much for her to comprehend at the moment. But now that she had seen what she should never have seen, he knew he couldn't let her go. Her naivety was a flaw that would allow her to be crushed by the world, but he had hoped that this very flaw would be his salvation, that it would allow him to enchant her through his power over her for a time long enough for her professional distance to vanish, for wariness to turn into trust and trust, one day, perhaps, into love. But her naivety had been the executioner of those hopes – she hadn't understood that he yearned to feel the wind on his face, the sunlight, to walk through the world as any normal man could. If he had the choice, he would give up everything in order to look normal in the eyes of the world. Now her naivety had conjured up in front of her a fairytale monster that was to be feared. He almost found himself admiring the bravery with which she had handed him the mask. She was fighting against a primal fear. Most people that had seen him didn't bother.

He took the mask and Christine pulled her hand back. Erik rose as he put it back on, covering his face with the soft material. With his face out of sight, he seemed to have shaken off at least twenty years and now stood up straight, every inch the commanding but gentlemanly French composer Christine had come to know him as.

Did he have any idea what he was actually asking of her? He was asking her to convince him that he _could_ be loved, that she could look at him without fearing his face, that she would be his shield against the cruelty of the world. It was simply too much. She didn't have superhuman strength! She was a shrinking violet when faced with the force of his anger, the power of his presence, the intensity of the love he had declared to her. Even if he were a normal man with an ordinary face, she would have been scared. But he was anything _but_ ordinary in every way, it seemed. She was ordinary, average, uninteresting. And, most of all, frightened.

"Erik…" she began, struggling for words, "I… I once said to you that I wish I understood you… now I think I do. Please understand me as you always have before. I was afraid… I am afraid even now… afraid that you will allow my stupidity to ruin something very dear to me." Her words were braver than she believed. She had witnessed the darker side of his personality in those short moments, she knew, but it had been her own decision. "This… I… I cannot love you if you cannot understand I am only human!"

Again, the scene seemed to freeze and the rage seemed to evaporate from Erik upon hearing those few words. With the mask in place, Christine was able to look at him, but the immense regret and almost entirely concealed hope she felt from him almost crushed her more completely than any anger could. A moment later, to her utter bewilderment, Erik was at her feet, literally, pleading for her forgiveness, repeating again and again that he loved her.

Shakily, Christine closed her eyes and placed a trembling arm on his head. Perhaps it was beyond her comprehension, but she understood that she had reacted in a way that calmed him similarly as he had calmed her. And while she could hardly return the words of love with honesty, there was not a resolute no in the place of an answer to the question whether she loved him or not. It was not a simple matter of yes or no. rather, the answer had morphed into something more complex.

_Not yet._


	32. Chapter 32

This one is the usual length again, with some serious business going on. It isn't incomplete, you know – the situation is resolved here. The next chapter will be dealing with a new development entirely. Though what that might be, I have yet to figure out. Perhaps the story will actually end soon, who knows? Before it gets spread too thin.

I've received some truly spectacular reviews when I returned from London. I saw PotO two more times and I gotta hand it down to Earl Carpenter – he is one hell of an Erik. Not the best, perhaps, but he certainly knows how he sees the character and how he wants to interpret him. The new Christine was better the second time around, the new Raoul cracked me up by tearing his shirt Superman-style before diving into the darkness.

In other words, long live PotO.

X X X

**Chapter XXXII**

X X X X

Christine was quite happy. Not because of the whole situation that she had helped create, willingly or not, but because said situation seemed to be resolved, now that she knew what lay beneath the mask. A great plus was also that as they had seemed to reach the height of awkwardness and embarrassment, there was no chance for the two things to rise any higher, thus they logically lessened.

She had remembered the real reason why she had invited Erik – no, asked him to come – and thus quickly ran to the kitchen to at least get him a coffee after such a long and abrupt journey from France. Erik, however, didn't seem to be bothered by it in the least. In fact, he seemed to radiate a strange happiness. Perhaps it was pride at his ability to find the one person who, while clearly shocked and even repulsed by his face, had taken up the gigantic task of overcoming her natural instinct; perhaps it was joy, for the very same reason. Nevertheless, Christine was very much aware that his eyes followed her movements at all times.

Not that things had gotten any less complicated, no. that would have been boring and – heaven forbid! – normal after receiving such an explanation.

It still left room for many questions, but Christine could tell she had poked around in Erik´s secrets enough for one afternoon. And, after all, it had not been entirely the point of the invitation. They didn't talk much after that dramatic display, merely sat, drinking the relatively good coffee she managed to prepare, until Erik turned the page to start a better conversation than their silent one.

"How did you find the concert pieces I have selected for you?" it was such a natural shift that Christine almost spilled a bit of her coffee mid-sip.

She nodded afterwards. "I've given most of them a look, but I don't think I like the German Lieder that much. I don't know, I just prefer different kinds of music. But I find the Sechs Lieder von Gellert by Beethoven charming. Sad, but nice." She added as an afterthought. "Perhaps we should look for songs about a certain topic and then select from those once we have gathered enough. Like about nature, love, God, sadness… something like that."

"Make your choice then – you will be singing the songs." Erik noted, almost too graciously. But he was perhaps trying to make up for his previous behavior, which had, in truth, been a bit unsettling. Understandable, but unsettling nonetheless.

Perhaps another choice – love, for example – would have raised his spirits, but Christine had an answer prepared already. "Well, if you let me, I think I would pick Shakespeare as my theme. Songs inspired by his poems or from operas that have been made from his plays."

"Excellent choice." Erik voiced his approval with a nod. He was actually a bit surprised by the ingenuity of the idea. Everyone sang about love and loss and death these days. But something more specific was always lacking. "It provides you with an excellent opportunity to select more emotions to display and more characters to portray. I would most definitely add the Willow Song from Othello to the list of choices. And Gounod's Juliette will suit you as well."

"Yes, but those are well-known operatic arias." Christine noted. "I would also like something less known."

"Your choice is fortunate to include a variety of composers, from those I have mentioned to Purcell, Fauré, Sullivan and many others. If you have a favorite among the plays that has not been put to music yet, name it and it shall be done – I can have your new aria ready within the week, Christine."

Christine, knowing that he was fully capable of making good on his promise, almost felt the heat rushing into her face. it was as if nothing had chanced, as if she had never seen beyond the mask, but perhaps Erik was being the tiniest bit more timid and more eager to please her than before. it was both flattering and nerve-wrecking. Somehow, she thought that she was expected to be as wonderful to him as he was to her, though she didn't think there could be anything matching his helpfulness.

She wanted to say that she was very grateful and it was clear to him that she was struggling for words, but when they couldn't come out, Erik raised a hand, as if to silence her. "Think nothing of it, my dear. Music comes to me easily in your presence. I would play you something even now, but I see you are sadly lacking any instrument here. I will have to remedy that."

At the mention of instruments, Christine perked up slightly, remembering. She had one instrument… but she had never learned to play it. "Wait a moment, please." She was already exiting the room and went to her closet to search for it at once. The case should normally have a place of honor in her household, but it was somehow too painful to see it at all times. Now, however…

What she brought back was an old violin case, but clearly cared for and dusted often. The instrument within didn't seem as fragile as it was old, as it appeared to be well-cared for… though it clearly had been neglected in the musical sense of the word. it was a violin, of course, and Erik realized that it had belonged to her father before she could even explain its origins.

"I want you to have it." Christine said solemnly, not giving him any room to protest. "It has rusted here for too long and I have no real use for it, only a sentimental one. Besides, I think that Father would have been proud to see the use they are going to be put. And… I have been living in memories for entirely too long."

Erik took it carefully, seeing that resisting was indeed useless, and with the utmost care, he removed the instrument from its case. Something crossed Christine's face upon seeing that, but he wasn't certain what it was. he slowly, gently, began to try it out and then slipped into a variation of a melody Christine didn't recognize, but which he had memorized as Paladilhe´s Psyché, a famous song from the minor French composer, an ode to the mythical princess where the performer sang of his jealousy of all nature that even touched Psyché – the sunrays, the air, the wind…

_Je suis jaloux, Psyché, de toute la nature;_

_  
Les rayons du soleil vous baisent trop souvent;  
Vos cheveux souffrent trop les caresses du vent;_

_  
Quand il tes flatte, j'en murmure;  
L'air meme que vous respirez_

_  
Avec trop de plaisir passe votre bouche;  
Votre habit de trop près vous touche;_

_Et sitôt que vous soupirez,  
Je ne sais quoi qui m'effarouche_

_  
Crain parmi vos soupirs des soupires égares._

Beauty and the Beast… but which was which, Christine wondered, listening to the angelic voice in a slight daze. There was nothing that Erik could not do, it seemed. Nothing that she could offer him he didn't already have – but, though it was perhaps selfish, she was losing qualms about whether this was right or wrong, to thread the more dangerous and certainly more exciting path.

Outside Christine's door, Raoul de Chagny stopped, almost as if something had forced him to. Though it was only like the echo of a ghostly wail from a different world – though it had been nothing of the sort in terms of beauty – the sound of a voice singing reached his ears. Now, had it been Christine, he would not have been startled at all. But the voice was completely different, though as beautiful as that of the young soprano, mostly because it was, for all its sweetness, the voice of a man. At first, he supposed that it was some kind of recording of a tenor he would have to ask Christine about and immediately recommend to the managers at Covent Garden.

But there was too much feeling in it, too much care and far too much authenticity. It was also accompanied only by a string instrument, which was certainly an odd choice when the usual piano would have done a better job, perhaps. In fact, Raoul was too shocked to even draw parallels between this voice and the other otherworldly voice he had once spoken to on the telephone. At least, not yet.

_Whose is that voice?_ he thought, _Who is that in there?_

He knocked firmly on the door and the music stopped immediately. The spell, whatever it had been, was broken as well. but there was no answer at the door, thus the young Vicomte rapped his knuckles against the wood again.

"Christine?" he called, but he wasn't certain whether that was the best idea. After all, perhaps he was interrupting… but the niceties died in his mind then. This was hardly a time for Christine to be entertaining guests, especially when she had left him at the hospital to deal with Mrs. Valérius. It was a bit harsh of her.

It took a few moments until someone finally came to answer the door. It was Christine, though she looked a bit worse for the wear than when he had seen her leaving the hospital – her hair was a bit tangled and she was somewhat pale. Otherwise, she seemed perfectly all right, if a bit unfocused, but there seemed to be the slightest fear in her surprised answer.

"Raoul! I-I didn't think… well, I wasn't expecting you tonight! I thought you would stay with Mrs. V. tonight-"

"She is soundly sleeping." The young Viscount interjected. "And she should be all right for a few hours. I thought your need was greater than hers at the moment, but if I am interrupting something, I can leave."

"Interrupting?" Christine didn't seem to understand. "You aren't interrupting anything, Raoul."

"May I come in?" Raoul asked, slightly irritated for some reason. He would be upset if Christine was pretending, but he didn't mean to sound so harsh. Especially when she sidestepped with a hurt expression.

"Of course."

He had been in the apartment before, thus nothing within surprised him, if only the emptiness of it. But somehow, he almost felt as if a pair of invisible eyes was watching his every move. "I was thinking of inviting you to stay at our mansion, Christine. You shouldn't be alone at a time like this, especially not at a time like this." Raoul said, turning to his girlfriend, and his expression and tone both softened greatly. He couldn't stay angry at her, especially when she was telling the truth, obviously. Besides, she still seemed a little scared.

But Christine shook her head with a surprising firmness. "I will be fine, Raoul. Thank you for the offer." It almost felt like being pushed, actually. Wasn't that what Sorelli had warned her against?

The Viscount sighed. As expected as that answer was, he didn't find it entirely to his liking. "You know, you still haven't given me an answer, Little Lotte." Christine paled again, but fortunately, Raoul wasn't looking at her in that exact moment. "And I confess I despair over that. being second to music in your life is what I must likely deal with, but I would take the second place permanently, if you would give me your consent."

"You speak of that in such a sad time?" Christine asked, fully aware of the danger. Contrary to what Raoul believed, Erik was indeed present, though even she who knew he was there had trouble seeing where he might be hiding. They were skating on the edge of a knife if Raoul continued in that direction. "I find I can't, Raoul." It was a very vague answer with various interpretations – the best she could hope for.

Raoul could hardly suppress another sigh. It seemed, with each passing word, that they were truly coming apart. Just as they had become close, their profound personality differences were becoming more and more obvious. "Christine, I love you." He said without a pretext. "But you also drive me into despair. Back in Paris, I would have never have forgiven myself if something had happened to you. But you appeared as you disappeared – well, without a trace and oblivious to your effect on others. On me. I need to hear you say it. If not that you will marry me someday, then all I ask is that you say that you love me. It might seem foolish to you, but I need to hear it."

The blonde soprano looked at him with entirely too much fear in her eyes. He didn't understand why she was afraid. Or perhaps he didn't want to understand. She was slipping away from him… and there was no way he could stop it.

"I see…" he whispered sadly, hanging his head.

Christine began without even knowing what she could say. "Raoul…"

"I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, Christine." The Viscount clearly wasn't listening to her attempt to say something or at least give him a hint of how much was at stake. "But if you do not love me anymore, I cannot force you. I would simply like to know why."

Brushing a hand through her golden locks, Christine but back her own sigh of frustration. This was going nowhere and she was hurting a person very dear to her. "Raoul, I cannot say what I feel for you. There is something there, some place in my heart that is reserved for you alone, but I cannot define it. Please don't ask me. This is a very difficult time for me, with Mrs. Valérius sick and you so sad… this isn't a decision made lightly. Please understand that. I care for you, yes, very much, but I don't know if I love you."

"That is an explanation, but not an answer, Christine." Raoul noted, with a bit of sadness and a great deal of hollowness. "You are skilled in evading that, but I need to hear your answer. Both of us must proceed with our lives, together or apart. I would join our destinies, but I respect your choice, whatever it may be."

The blonde bit her lip. "Things have changed, Raoul. It isn't as easy as it might have been back in Sweden. I cannot turn back the time. perhaps our lives are simply too different. Perhaps we can never be. But now… now I need time alone. I need to think about all this and see what I really feel."

"_Little Lotte let her mind wander._" Raoul said, reminiscent of the past. "_Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes… or of riddles or frocks?"_

Realizing that it was truly the end, Christine gave a sad smile and continued. "_No; what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_

"_The Angel of Music sings songs in my head."_ They repeated together, sadly, and Raoul took a step towards her to embrace her. at first, Christine seemed reluctant, but then her heart overrode her mind. There was nothing wrong with saying goodbye; and perhaps this was the last goodbye they would be saying to each other.

She embraced Raoul tightly, and his arms also snaked their way around her back, holding her firmly for a long time. then, they both let go, and the Viscount placed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"I will be watching over you, Little Lotte. Whenever you need me." And then, he was closing the door behind him softly, as if he had never even been there.

In the days after that, Raoul would often return to that parting. It hadn't been the final goodbye and he would yet see Christine many times, but hear her name countless more. His continued patronage of the Royal Opera House would bring her into his path from time to time and perhaps, one day, when their positions in the world would be stabilized again, they would find each other in the crowds again. until then, he could care for her and help her from afar.

Perhaps it was a childish choice to make, but he resolved to keep a spark of hope within him. After all, there was no telling what Christine may ultimately choose. She had not outright refused him, which was a hopeful sign, and he would remain at her side as a friend, at least, for the time being.

But then again, perhaps he had not imagined the Angel of Music singing in his head as he parted, making him partially understand why Christine could, in the end, choose differently than he hoped.

_If music be the food of love,  
sing on till I am fill'd with joy;  
for then my list'ning soul you move  
with pleasures that can never cloy,  
your eyes, your mien, your tongue declare  
that you are music ev'rywhere. _

_Pleasures invade both eye and ear,  
so fierce the transports are, they wound,  
and all my senses feasted are,  
tho' yet the treat is only sound.  
Sure I must perish by our charms,  
unless you save me in your arms. _


	33. Chapter 33

The quickest update ever! And it explains the last one. This chapter is dedicated to Mominator, who offered useful criticism that I used to come up with this whole plotline – thank you! Comments and reviews are welcome!

X X X

**Chapter XXXIII**

X X X X

When the Viscount left, something in Christine sank.

There was an abrupt sensation of realization within her, realizing that whatever happiness – no, gladness was more like it – she had felt up till then was purely self-constructed. She wanted to believe that everything was all right. Perhaps it had been her fear and the little girl within her that had persuaded her that as long as she could believe she was happy, she would be.

But now, she saw, understood – or was forced to admit – that it wasn't so. She couldn't pretend that nothing was wrong any longer.

Perhaps it was a realization she would have never been able to do on her own… but Raoul´s words, the expression on his face… it made her accept the truth.

Something in her life was wrong.

And it was not necessarily Erik's presence in it – it was what that presence was causing. Slowly, steadily, she was losing all aspects of normal, natural life she had left. She was changing – no, had changed – and not for the better. She was losing her friends; she had lost a dear person already moments ago more completely than she had thought. And she was unable to cross the bridge between her former existence as a journalist in a small regional paper to a world-class diva with a terrible secret. Or perhaps she could… but not with the burden Erik had chosen her to bear.

From the shadows, wherever he might have been, the figure of Erik stepped forward. Seeing her distressed state, he knelt next to her, but something in her face stopped him from even touching the chair, let alone her hand. Her eyes were a bit blank, a bit teary, but also hard and afraid as they rested on nothing in particular.

Maybe it was the consequence of her decision drawing on her. Words were of no use here to comfort her. Music might, however; music always would. And so, borrowing the words of Shakespeare and the music of Purcell, the Angel of Music sang to her of the beauty of just that, watching her motionless form with increasing concern and fright. For the first time, he couldn't read her expression. And it was terrifying, not to have the slightest access to her. It was as if for the first time, music didn't, couldn't, reach her.

The song ended peacefully… and with the final note, Christine came to a decision.

But she couldn't, mustn't look at Erik, lest her resolve crumble underneath the weight of her pity – yes, pity it was. Pity added to fascination, gratitude, infatuation, perhaps… the foundations of a stronger spell, yes, but not what he was truly hoping for. Perhaps if there had been more time and things had gone differently…

But what if she was unable to give him that – to love him for himself? She loved his music, which was unquestionably part of him, but not necessarily him as a person. Or perhaps she did love him, but wasn't _in love_ with him.

And Raoul… she loved him as well, she realized, as a little girl who loves her prince charming on a white horse, coming to rescue her from a terrible enchantment. But he had no connection with her present life, other than as a dear companion from a past long gone.

"I cannot do this anymore." Finally, she spoke, but there was a hollowness in her voice, even more than when they had begun their training. "I can't go on like this. Please leave me now, Erik. I need to be alone. Go now… leave me, please." She was proclaiming this to the world in general.

At first he didn't understand. That was the ultimate ordeal. "Leave you?" I was almost a child's voice, bell-like. But it was the calm before the storm, which thundered up within a few words. "Leave you so you can regret sending him away? So you can have second thoughts? I endured his presence for your sake – I allowed him to hold you and say his farewells, which is more than the boy deserves! And now you would send me away? I'm afraid you haven't understood my meaning, my dear. You've seen what I never meant to display to anyone ever again! You are mine now!"

"Leave, Erik." Christine said peacefully, closing her eyes as if that could make him vanish. "Please go now."

Her lack of protest or anger and tears surprised him and frightened him. "Christine…" he trued a softer tone upon seeing that she was not slipping into hysterics. Perhaps it wasn't because of his face any longer?

"Please go."

He calm enraged him somehow, more than her tears and screams ever could. It drove him into despair. After several attempts to persuade her, with kindness or anger, he saw that like a marble statue, she couldn't be moved. She wouldn't even look at him anymore.

For hours, he stood in the shadow of the building where she resided; waiting for any sign of movement from within her apartment that she had woken from her sadness and made a different choice. No such hope came and eventually, he was forced to give up that idea. But in response to that, he hastened to secure the best physicians for her guardian as soon as possible. Perhaps such an act would bring her peace back.

Christine knew none of that. Instead, she resolved to make her choice, now.

But it she couldn't take back what had happened or change it. But this was the time for drastic measures. Time to make a change that would stop the madness from coming. She no longer belonged to the _Deacon_, she knew. But as long as she remained where she was, she could be reached by those she had sent away minutes ago. And she couldn't allow for that to happen, not yet.

She couldn't hide and she didn't want to. But now, she needed to run to see her own freedom and its limits. To know if it still existed.

She checked the time zones on the internet and recent productions. Then, without hesitation, she dialed the number of the management of the foreign opera house.

"Good day, this is Christine Daaé speaking." She had planned to ask for the date of auditions for the newest opera, but the secretary recognized her name and voice and immediately asked her to wait to be connected to the manager's office.

"Miss Daaé, what an unexpected surprise." The manager said after introducing himself. Christine was momentarily glad she had chosen an English-speaking country. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I was about to ask the same question." she tried to smile, but it was a bit forced. "I saw your production plan for this season and I would be interested in auditioning for the title character in Rusalka."

"With your voice, miss? I think you'd get the part without auditions, from what I heard. But I was under the impression you had a contract in Paris – we wanted to invite you here but found out that you had gone there previously and they didn't exactly want to budge."

"There's been a change of plans." Christine said firmly. "And this is my choice. Unless, of course, you don't want me…"

"No, no, no, we do, we do, most certainly!" the manager hastened to say. "But I'm surprised to hear from you personally… well, never mind that, we definitely want you as a performer! When could you come? A few people would need to hear you sing live, but I don't see why it would be a problem to give you an audition in advance. We can work out details then."

"As soon as tomorrow, if you can secure me a hotel for the time being. Nothing too fancy, just a place to sleep."

"Of course, of course. We'll send someone to the airport to wait for you when you call us. I'll give you my number. If you don't mind me asking, if you've cancelled Paris, perhaps you would be interested in forming one with us?" he asked hopefully. "I realize it's a bit far from England, but as you yourself have expressed interest…"

Christine thought for a moment. "It depends on the circumstance, but if I like the repertoire, we could work out a deal."

"That would be excellent."

X X X

Mrs. Valérius died that night.

Christine received the phone call an hour later and had the funeral arranged within the hour. As the elderly lady had no living blood relatives and only Christine was a close person, there was very little to deal with. Christine sent emails and text messages to her friends who had known her. She couldn't face it with her friends… but facing it alone was also terrible. Paying her respects to the elderly lady who had been her mother for the better part of her life at the hospital was utterly painful. What was more, she almost thought she had spotted Erik somewhere in the shadows, wishing to comfort her but not finding the words or the courage.

Christine was resolved to do what she had to do, what she could not have done after her father died – to start a new chapter in her life. She didn't visit his grave that night, as that would have broken her entirely, but in her mind, she was with him. None of that which she had planned could be done with Raoul close and Erik watching her every move. Even Meg, Sorelli, Count Phillip… she loved them all, but they were living memories of the time she had spent in her surreal world of music and angels.

It was necessary to move on and the only way was to do it quickly.

With one phone call, she quit her job at the_ Deacon,_ giving a stupefied Lefévre no room for questions… though it had, admittedly, been some time since she had written a more serious article. She had been only somewhat of a mascot, in her eyes, and that wasn't enough. She left the funeral in Meg´s care, knowing that for all her bubblehead-ness, she would handle it brilliantly; after all, she had cared for the elderly lady very much. She also wrote her best friend an explanation for all she had done, leaving out only Erik's face. It struck her as an unnecessary detail, somehow.

She slept throughout the entire flight to Sydney, rejuvenating her energy. And once there, it was time for a new beginning.

Her phone was the first thing to go. She got a new one immediately upon arriving. The numbers in her old one were copied into the new one and she sent her number to Meg alone – she trusted the brunette to understand after the lengthy letter she wrote her. An email to Raoul not to worry was the next thing. She regretted it, but there was nothing to be done about that. Sorelli would find out everything through the two of them. The last, and most problematic, was Erik.

In the end, she settled for calling the only person close enough to Erik to tell him everything whom she could trust – Nadir Khan. They had exchanged phone numbers previously to keep in touch, but she had almost forgotten the Iranian for the few weeks since their last meeting. That didn't seem to be mutual, as he greeted her with enthusiasm over the phone, but then informed her of the situation.

"Erik found out that you had left the country without saying a word to him." The Iranian explained. Christine nodded to herself, expecting him to be quick on the uptake. "I don't think my right ear will ever be the same after his interrogation. He seemed to think I had helped you with this."

"Your conscience is clear – this was my choice entirely." She assured him, but was still feeling somewhat strange about the whole thing. She should have felt pity for Erik upon hearing that he had roared like wounded and caged animal about her betrayal. But she didn't think of it like that. It was she who had escaped her prison… and it was grand. "If he asks again, just tell him that I need time to think. It has nothing to do with his face."

Nadir was silent for a moment. "So you have seen. And you do not care about it? You are an amazing young woman, mademoiselle. If I didn't know Erik as I do, I would congratulate him on his choice."

"What do you mean?" Christine frowned. Erik didn't seem like the type of man who boasted of such things.

"I have known Erik for a very long time and his obsession with you was obvious even before he had realized himself what it was." Obsession. The word was fitting. "Make no mistake, Christine – he loves you as he had never loved any creature in existence, as far as I know. But Erik is dangerous in this aspect. Having never received any love himself, he likely has no idea how to give it. I imagine he will jealously guard you from the rest of the world."

"He had. But it had to end one day." Christine sighed. A stab of pity. That was what she felt. Erik also wasn't what she had believed he was – no Angel of Music, no creature of mystery, merely a broken man. Somehow, life took a liking to shattering all her illusions. "I imagine he views my leaving as a betrayal of his secret?"

"He would, but you haven't betrayed it. I should think he ripped your magazine to shreds searching for the grand revelation article." Nadir noted without amusement. There was no lie behind those words – both of them knew Erik was fully capable of that. "Are you planning to return to England? You realize you will have to face Erik someday. I don't mean to sound frightening, but I can assure you that once he discovers where you are, he will be at your side within an instant and demand that you return. He rarely relinquishes his hold on anything he likes that easily."

"I know… but I need time alone. I'm not a machine, Nadir; I can't just decide that I'm going to love him because he deserves it. I'm a human being and right now, I've lost two very dear people to me in different ways. I need to take the information in before I can move forward. Besides, I… I think I need to know more about Erik. And I doubt he would ever tell me personally. Perhaps you could tell me something of his past. He never spoke of it."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, as if Nadir was making certain whether or not Erik was listening in. "Christine, please understand that I am no expert on Erik. I have merely known him for longer than anyone else and lived to tell the tale."

"What?" Christine cringed.

A sigh. "This might sound cruel, but it is the truth. I think I can tell you this much: his face makes Erik believe that he is rid of all obligation to the human race. I believe he sees himself apart from it, as something different."

"Then his music…"

"He composes purely to sate his own ego and to fill his time with something productive. That he needs money is secondary. Music isn't the only thing he is capable of creating." Nadir said gravely, but he didn't mean to frighten the girl. This was not the best way to make peace between her and Erik, especially after what the Iranian imagined she had been put through in his hands. He could vividly see Erik becoming something like her shadow, shielding her against everything he viewed as a threat. Even her way of life.

Christine, sitting in her dressing room in the opera house, paled slightly. She had thought it would be unusual, but Nadir was making it sound like a horror-macabre tale. And where had he and Erik met? They were unlikely companions… "Can you tell me what you know? I need to know everything."

"It isn't my story to tell." The Iranian noted. "I'm sorry, Christine, you will have to ask Erik himself. But I can assure you that he will not be pleased if you do so. I would leave it for a later date than your next encounter. If you choose to have a next encounter, that is. But I would be careful with him. Do not underestimate his devotion to you. He is a genius, but geniuses never think like normal people do. The line between those ways of thinking might be blurred to them."

The soprano bit her lip. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for everything and please don't tell him anything about what I asked. I want to see if I can do this alone, make a career on my own. If I find I can, then I will seek him out and speak with him again."

"That might not be necessary. But, just in case, what am I supposed to tell him should he bombard me with questions about you again?"

Christine fell silent, thinking, but then reached a conclusion. She wasn't sorry about what she had done. "Tell him that I thank him for showing me the way to be free."


	34. Chapter 34

Long break, I apologize. No inspiration, no time, no nothing. But I've finally planned out the rest of the story! There should be one last twist or two, but I'm aiming for forty chapters or so, if possible, so I'll keep you guys posted on the updates.

Status report: College, ahoy! I'm officially a freshman now, and I've got less time than ever. Well, actually, I've got loads of time, but it's never enough. Afternoon classes make you feel like you have no time at all. In any case, I've gotten further with my singing, getting up to A5 in practice regularly and finally allowed to sing songs with at least one F4. Yay for intermediate levels! Finally, some good stuff!

The first-ever Christine-free chapter is here! Is that even possible?

X X X

**Chapter XXXIV**

X X X X X

The first week without her was hell.

To say that Erik was livid regarding what had happened would have been a gross understatement of a much more frightening truth. It seemed as though if he could, he would personally search every corner of the world for her. He had a very good idea as to why she had quit her day job without a care in the world. He was in a state that actually allowed him to consider phoning every opera house of significance to question them on Christine's whereabouts. But then, the news would spread very quickly, which was the last thing he wanted to happen.

He still couldn't understand just why she had done something so childish and foolish… the moment she was free to stay with him, she ran away from her decision and, what mattered more, from him. What did she have to fear? His face…? She had handled the revelation outstandingly, he could admit that with the passing days, without screams, without hysteria, and yet she was the first to actually flee.

When he realized what had happened, it was as if something had been broken, as if something had been released that should never have seen the light of the sun. He couldn't find her through conventional means, thus he composed. Day and night, without ever eating or sleeping, he composed music that was darker than anything that humankind had ever heard, music that had place only in Don Juan Triumphant, a work that he had started three decades ago, a work he intended to finish. Inspiration for an aria di furia came quickly. The overture, a sea in a storm.

And Erik was in such a state that he could hardly be considered sane. He was a man possessed, a man out of his mind.

Nadir had at first thought that once the initial anger would disperse, Erik would come to understand the situation the poor girl was in and understand that she had been overwhelmed by a sense of loss and enchantment at the same time. The Iranian himself firmly believed that Christine had never intended to hurt Erik; she had simply known that he would have never agreed to allow her to leave him for such a long period of time to arrange her thoughts.

Finally, he decided to step in and stop the madness before it could begin. His demands to meet with Erik had been ignored, which was perhaps for the better, as Erik enraged was as dangerous as a hungry caged lion, but he made it his business to at least bombard his elusive friend with phone calls. At all times, he was greeted with the same question.

"Is she with you?"

In all honesty, Nadir didn't know what to do. He had seen Erik enraged before, but never despairing. And this was anger mixed with despair, a horrible sight.

But he also marveled at how Christine managed to stay hidden from public sight. It seemed that she had asked the opera house management in Sydney not to mention her participation in the productions until it was definite. Otherwise Erik, who had never given up on the search, would have found her in an instant. But both of them were not "stars" of international standing and Nadir counted the days until someone would sniff out some sort of falling-out between the two of them.

His fears were to be confirmed a week later.

It happened by pure chance; he usually didn't make a habit of purchasing random newspapers, especially tabloids, but this one caught his eye. When he read even part of the headline, he realized that this was going to cause major problems for both sides. He didn't know who had found out or from where – though, looking from the point of an outsider, perhaps it was easy to draw conclusions – but for once, even the trash-filled tabloids had not struck too far from the truth.

He immediately bombarded Erik on the phone – right after purchasing a copy himself – and, unsurprisingly, he received a response, as he usually did when calling him nowadays.

"I'll assume you have something important to say, daroga." Erik's voice, closer to thunder than an angel's song on purpose, commented instead of an introduction. "Make it quick. I am composing."

"Erik, I insist that we meet this time. We have an unexpected complication." Nadir also skipped the introduction in a routine fashion. There was no time for pleasantries; this was urgent.

There wasn't even a moment of hesitation. "Unless it has something to do with _her_," he didn't even mention her name – it immediately brought forth a turmoil of dark emotions – but Nadir got the distinct impression the Erik was far less patient than he currently sounded. There was a cynic undertone in his voice. "I am not interested."

"It involves her." the Iranian confirmed, also taking care not to mention Christine by name just yet. Rather, he mentioned the newspaper by name. "It's not on the front page, but someone definitely got cash for this. The article involves you, her and the Viscount de Chagny."

Erik didn't seem to be that impressed, especially after the mention of Raoul´s name. "Don't tell me you've been reduced to believing in tabloid trash." What Nadir realized just then that after enduring the mutterings and open mistreatment Erik had been forced to put up with throughout his life, an article of such content was very unlikely to even catch his interest.

But the Iranian was of a different opinion. "Erik, don't take this that lightly. Remember that in the outside world,"

"What a fitting expression, my dear friend."

The Iranian refused to be frustrated more than he actually was. Erik was underestimating the impact of this. "No one out there knows of your condition. Your music isn't the only thing of consequence to the public. As you refuse to give them the slightest information about yourself, the papers try to dig up anything about you. This could do a lot more damage than you think!"

The sound of a chair shifting. A few strikes of fingers on a keyboard. Apparently, Erik had a much quicker method of searching for possible information about himself, though it was doubtful that he used it too often. He read the article almost within an instant, assuming that it was the same as Nadir was rambling about.

_Classical music seems to have been experiencing a sudden renaissance. There is not a single fan – or fanatic – that isn't aware of the sudden appearance of a new composer, known to the world only as Erik. For the past few months, the world has been bedazzled by the music that could easily be considered angelic and, on the surface, the author itself seemed to match the same description. However, recent__information provided by a source close to the arts and the artist brings certain doubts to that image._

_Recently, another classical artist has entered the picture. Christine Daaé, 26, was working as a reporter in the local newspaper before her life changed dramatically. It is unknown whether Miss Daaé received any prior training in music or performing arts in general, but it would seem that within the matter of weeks, she passed from enthusiastic amateur to rising star. Currently, she is considered one of the most promising performers of the classical repertoire of the recent decade._

_It was debatable whether the relationship between the composer, whose very appearance remains a mystery, and his young student, was more than scholarly, though no signs of either possibility surfaced. However, our trusted source reports that there has recently been a falling-out between the famous duo, possibly because of the relatively little-known fact that Miss Daaé and one of the patrons of the world-famous Royal Opera House in London, Viscount Raoul de Chagny, 28__th__ in line for the British throne, are in a relationship._

_Recently, there has also been a lack of communication between the famous soprano and the Viscount, though reliable information also suggests that de Chagny fully intended to propose to her. In addition, it would seem that Miss Daaé, who was unavailable for comments, has ended her contract with her original employer in the British magazine the _Deacon_ and left to further her operatic carrier. _

_Considering the facts mentioned and the news of an upcoming release of a new opera from Erik, who had apparently excluded Covent Garden from the list of candidates for the premiere, one can only guess what the next scene the ongoing drama will involve… though we can likely safely assume that Miss Daaé will be playing the lead both on-stage and off._

There were other comments or tabs twisting the information or debates regarding it, but all involved the same central topic. What one article had labeled as a love-triangle another labeled as drama and so on. Some were sympathetically romantic, others gleefully prodding and poking further into their own conspiracy theories.

And, finally, by absolute coincidence and chance, Erik found a piece of information he hadn't even hoped for. Of course Christine would have asked everyone around her not to mention where she was, but the advance planning of the management could hardly be countered by such a simple request. Moreover, the people running the website of the opera house were hardly as well-informed as those with which Christine likely communicated. Or perhaps they viewed this as a whim of a prima donna.

"Daroga." Erik spoke again after a few minutes of silence, during which Nadir was reduced to waiting in silence, knowing that there was little point in even asking Erik to continue or at least say that he was still there. "You have actually been useful in disrupting my composing. You may tell Christine to prepare for my visit and congratulate her on finally choosing a proper role."

Nadir froze; Erik could be bluffing on the account of knowing where Christine was and the Iranian wasn't about to be goaded into telling, but there was a certainty in his voice that was way beyond any possibilities of a lie. "Erik, you… you aren't planning on doing anything rash, are you?" he asked carefully. Knowing Erik, his reaction could range from a temper tantrum to desperate begging for Christine to return, assuming he cared for her that much, which was obvious.

There was a strangely innocent yet completely mocking laugh on the other end of the line. "Daroga, do you seriously think that I would harm her? Why should I make her pay for the sins that aren't hers?"

Still, the Iranian wasn't certain he liked the sound of that. Later on, contemplating that last sentence – for the line went deaf thereafter – he contemplated whether or not it sounded as if someone else was going to pay for the "sins" committed. In any case, he decided that contacting Christine that her whereabouts might have been discovered sooner than she might have hoped for was not the wrong thing to do. She deserved to know that she was in for an inevitable visit.

It didn't matter where exactly she was – as long he knew at least the country she was in, he would be able to find her.

And then, Nadir could only hope that she would be able to return reason to Erik's mind while remaining free.

X X X X X

Back in London, Raoul de Chagny was experiencing relatively different problems.

It had been two weeks since Christine had disappeared, both from his life and from her own, it seemed. Two weeks that had been spent in silence and brooding, the longest two weeks he had seen in a very long time. The world continued turning, but time seemed to have stopped.

His brother, in attempts to figure out what had happened, tried to occupy him with work; Sorelli, in her attempt to help, had tried to cheer him up through whatever means possible, though most often, she wanted to discuss what had happened between him and Christine. He himself often tried to call Meg, but there was either no response or she, two didn't know too much about Christine or her whereabouts.

Unfortunately, he understood that their relative break-up had been somewhat inevitable for some time, due to their obviously different lifestyles, though certainly not different interests.

At the same time, he had a company to help run and an opera house to support financially and socially. And currently, the latter was occupying most of his time, as he was lower on the food chain in the family company and thus his brother dealt with most of the real business. Who knew that even a patron could be faced with so many problems? It turned out that the relatively new managers of the artistic institute were also relatively pathetic.

Their main interest was profit, but they were not too shrewd a pair. Their main job was coaxing – or, to put it more bluntly, groveling and pleading – and somehow making La Carlotta stay. The diva, though world-famous still, was somewhat past her prime, but twice as self-confident as ever, threatening to walk out on them before and after every premiere. In particular, the last few productions had been especially trying.

And, weeks ago, la diva, as most of the staff and performers had dubbed Carlotta mockingly, overheard one manager suggest to the other – it was doubtful which of them had been stupid enough to allow such a suggestion to be overheard – that, since it was known to them both that Christine Daaé was friendly with the patrons and their family, the same Christine Daaé who was now considered a star of international standing, who still didn't seem to have permanent employment at a particular opera house, they should contact the soprano and suggest the pros of accepting their offer before even considering any other.

There likely wasn't a creature within the radius of three miles, even those that were deaf or possessed impaired hearing, that hadn't heard the first shriek of rage that began the greatest temper tantrum that Carlotta Giudicelli had had at Covent Garden and certainly the greatest example of diva behavior any of those around had ever witnessed.

She had, apparently, enough modern people among her admirers that were able to use the internet very well and so, she somehow got a hold of some sort of recording of Christine's singing. Afterwards, it was only worse. The best that could be said was that at least she was being direct and not plotting or planning anything in the background. It seemed that she was determined to quit if they even contacted Christine… but in the shadows, mutterings began to arise that it would be like hitting two birds with one stone – gaining a new and better singer while getting rid of the holier-than-thou ear-damaging one without problems.

But Raoul had discovered, a bit too late, that Christine apparently had plans of her own that involved evading what caused her pain rather than facing it when the problem arose. At least she had left a message for him, so that he wouldn't worry. And then, all hell broke loose.

The articles themselves were of little to no consequence to the young Viscount, but the fuss that surrounded it turned out to be very annoying. It wasn't as if it was too much of a scandal in itself, but being the center of any kind of medial attention was downright tedious.

Finally, days after the release of the article, he had had quite enough of the speculations and the rumor-mongers in particular. He was determined to talk to Meg and get her to admit where Christine was; certainly she wouldn't have left without telling at least someone. The young photographer had also been in charge of Mrs. Valérius´s funeral, son naturally Christine had to have given her some instructions or at least more information than she had given the others. Sorelli knew next to nothing and Philippe clearly knew nothing as well.

But Meg had also been somewhat distant when he had last spoken to her, not too eager to speak or instructed not to. But right now, Raoul was certain that if anything was necessary, it was speaking to Christine once more, at least one last time. They had not parted on the best of terms and he wished to at least remain friends with her. Even if she was to be only an acquaintance of his in her eyes, her value in his life would be unquestionable. After all, they had shared at least one of the best times in their childhood.

He was about to dial Meg´s number for the umpteenth time when his phone rang. The number was unknown to him. But Christine had clearly either switched phones or left hers at home, as he was never able to reach her number anymore. Without thinking, he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Raoul, it's me."

And it _was_ her.


	35. Chapter 35

Twenty seven thousand page views! W00t! I love you guys!

Now, if I only had a review for every page view…

(Ahem) Anyway, I apologize for the tremendous break, as it has been a really awful few months.

On the plus side, I'm singing Cherubino from Le Nozze di Figaro on my singing lessons now and my teacher says that the top notes are turning out best. Now, if only my passagio would stop giving me trouble… I'd have the arietta under my belt in a month. But alas, things aren't that easy – she said that she expects us to finish it in May. Oo

I fell in love with Lord of the Rings again, started learning two new languages at the same time and should have updated at least a week ago, but don't worry – the fic IS plotted out this time, but there isn't enough time for me to get it into the PC. Well, I hope to be done by New Year and then maybe start a new one, but then again, who knows? Novel-length fics are very draining and difficult and I might only continue with one-shots from then on.

But until that time comes…

X X X

**Chapter XXXV**

X X X X X

It was a long conversation, perhaps the longest they had ever had. How strange that it was destined to take place over the phone.

They talked as old friends, mainly Christine ensuring Raoul that everything was all right and Raoul asking if she hadn't yet been besieged by photographers and reporters attempting to get her "opinion" on the latest gossip. Fortunately, she hadn't been, she assured him, though she adamantly refused to reveal her location just yet.

"I will return, Raoul." Christine said gently, firmly. "I simply needed time to rearrange my thoughts and I couldn't do it back home." Again, she thanked him profoundly for all he had done for her and assured him that it was her fault alone that this had happened, not his at all. It was the complete truth, the dark part of her told her, and it was time to start telling only the complete truth. She was no longer a reporter, but that didn't mean she was going to abandon that one thing. The truth.

The young Viscount was feeling greatly relieved. Christine was no longer as morose as she had seemed when they had last met; it seemed that she had acquired an inner peace. Was it because of the articles? Or because of the separation? In any case, it had done her good, clearly. And she had told him everything that he wanted to know, save for the few crucial questions he was saving for last. He knew about the lessons now and about how she had been bound to secrecy. But the how was still missing.

"Just be careful, please." He implored her one last time. "These people can corner you like a pack of rats."

"I know."

"Christine… won't he find you?" They were getting to the matters of most importance – Raoul wanted these answers. He knew that Christine wasn't a person that could be rushed or pressed into telling the truth; that was simply the way she was, breakable. But with care, perhaps he would be able to finally persuade her to let him see.

There was a pause on the other end of the line; obviously, Christine was considering the possibility. Then, finally, she answered. "Eventually, yes. But I cannot avoid him forever, Raoul. I will face him when the time comes."

"Wouldn't it be better if I stood with you then?" the Viscount suggested. He knew enough of Erik to know that the composer was not the most understanding person in the world.

But Christine had obviously made up her mind. "Thank you, but no. it isn't your problem and I would have excluded you from these troubles, had it been possible. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I feel I've gotten you into this situation somehow. Or at least poured oil into the fire." For a moment, he paused. "You love him, Christine, don't you?" he asked sadly; there was a silence on the other end that he didn't bother waiting for. "I'm not angry with you, don't be frightened. But I would like to hear your answer." So that I can make peace with myself and forgive you and keep on loving you without the pain.

Christine was hesitating. It was a question she had asked herself what seemed a zillion times over, in different variations, all returning to the simplest of answers: yes or no. "I cannot, Raoul." She said sadly into the receiver. "I wish I could. I wish it…"

"Christine, stop." And she did, abruptly, because of the strange tone of Raoul´s voice. It wasn't filled with anger, but it was firm and it felt like a parent or an older brother chiding her. "Love is a difficult concept to grasp. Tell me what you feel when you think of him."

"Why are you asking this of me?"

"Because I love you, Christine." It was the simplest of answers. "And I feel a warmth when you are near; what brings you joy gives me life; what saddens you kills me from within."

It sounded like a line from a romantic opera, but Christine understood it. It was truly the emotion that filled her when she was with Erik; his dissatisfaction with her brought her anguish; when he was happy with her, she felt like she could soar. But she had never connected that notion with anything beyond singing, the art and music that they shared.

Can you take up the burden that might break your back during the journey through life?

Can you unconditionally love a shadow?

And his face…

The horror of it was no longer fresh and fear was not present in her heart when she remembered the frightful mask of death and the catlike eyes that had gazed into hers with blind love. Not all of him was terrifying, though his soul was burning with an incinerating flame, from which one could draw life… or be killed by it. And she had basked in warmth for long enough to know the cold of the gray world that lay beyond.

Was this love? No, that wasn't the question. The question was: could the fire be directed, perhaps somewhat tamed, so that it wouldn't be a wild storm but a flame that could warm the world?

The task had been appointed to her, it seemed. In a moment, she wondered whether Erik loved her for herself and not for her voice. But in that, the equity between them was maintained, because she loved his voice without question.

She couldn't have saved Mrs. Valérius from her fate. But here, she could save a beautiful soul from the chains of madness, which would undoubtedly follow soon enough, if his solitude wasn't breached.

No, she couldn't answer the burning question with a simple yes or no. but she realized that in the end, it didn't matter.

"Christine?"

Words would not suffice. An hour later, perhaps, it would have seemed strange to her, awkward, even, but now, she didn't hesitate to open her mouth to sing, even though she was using falsetto and her voice was shaking.

_I attempt from Love's sickness to fly in vain  
since I am myself my own fever and pain  
No more now, fond heart, with pride no more swell  
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel_

_For Love has more pow'r and less mercy than fate  
to make us seek ruin and on those that hate._

Silence on the other end of the line. Christine didn't even have the will to call out Raoul´s name, but when he finally spoke, she had the feeling that he was smiling sadly. "You see, Christine? You speak through his language; you answer the call. Does he love you?"

"Completely." This time, she didn't hesitate.

He is music. And music gives her back her father, her talent, her happiness.

You must let the shadow of her go.

"Christine…" he could hardly bring himself to saying it, knowing that he was making the noblest and stupidest mistake of his life. But it was for her and so it would bring him content… in time. "I will always be here for you when you need me. Always, as your friend. But you… you must make peace with him. For all our sakes."

Silence. And then… "Thank you, Raoul. You have always been the best thing that has ever happened to me."

But though she couldn't, even the Viscount could tell that was a lie.

X X X X X

The reporters were truly like a swarm of insects once they discovered where Christine was to have her premiere. Every time she left rehearsal, at least half a dozen of them was waiting in tow, trying to lure any kind of truth from her, any information. Nadir had called her once, warning her that Erik had discovered her hiding place – or so it seemed. But there was no sight of him in the following weeks and Christine grew wary. She had learned from him how to evade unwanted eyes.

Finally, she had called Meg, who was overjoyed to hear from her and told her that everything about the funeral had gone well. All of Mrs. Valérius´ possessions were to go to Christine, the house including. Christine accepted the news, knowing that she would have to deal with this eventually. The pain of loss had subsided in the long weeks of hard work. She had unwillingly learned what it felt like to work on Erik's schedule, day and night, keeping everything running like clockwork.

At times, she felt as if his eyes were watching her, but he never appeared. And so, she came to the management of the opera house with a proposal: that she would give a concert, along with several other artists, if she could get in touch with them. The management agreed and so she called Covent Garden, where Richard and Moncharmin immediately showered her with warm greetings and offers for a contract, which she declined, for the time being. Instead, she asked if there was any kind of possibility that artists she had interviewed or met there would want to travel to Australia to have a concert with her.

At first, they were stunned, but even more stunning were the results they received when they asked the performers about it.

Those she had interviewed after the premiere of La Grue agreed with obvious enthusiasm, partly because Christine Daaé was a world-class house name now, partly because she had been very polite even when she hadn't been. Piangi agreed as soon as word reached him that Delibes was in the repertoire of the local orchestra and that he could show off the arias he had learned long ago but never had a chance to perform.

And, to everyone's astonishment, Carlotta agreed as well.

There had been a sneer on her face when she did, but a satisfied one. No one that saw that expression of superiority was naïve enough to assume that her consent was anything more than her seeing a chance to outsing Christine Daaé in her own opera house, which would have been regarded as a great victory by some.

The contracts were signed, the date was set and the performers started practicing.

Weeks later, the news was already all around the operatic world; some of the most famous house names of the world had agreed to sing in Sydney, some that Christine hadn't even met, partly because they saw the potential for a great concert, partly because they wanted to return into the center of the professional opera attention.

In a month, the concert was the most anticipated cultural event of the year and if Christine thought that the activity of reporters would have subsided by then, she was dead wrong. Quite the contrary, reporters observed the rehearsals like a pack of jackals or a flock of vultures, depending on their level of viciousness.

Only one question repeated itself constantly: would Erik come and see this grand debut himself?

Christine answered all with a neutral: I cannot say. Which, coincidentally, was a complete truth. She had no idea what had happened to Erik, but she sometimes heard his voice in her dreams. She and Nadir remained in touch; the Iranian was also growing worried and so Christine decided to send him a ticket to the concert, for which he was grateful.

"If he is to show up, it will undoubtedly be at the concert." Nadir voiced into the telephone. "And Christine, please be wary. If he intends to speak with you, he might not wait for the time to approach you conventionally. He is… creative."

Christine understood that more than he thought.

And so, as the preparations were long and there was the Christmas break to consider, in the end, the opera house decided to do something even grander than a simple concert – to merge it with the carnival season and pay homage to the theater of ancient Greece, where actors had worn masks to signify their mood. The singers weren't entirely enthusiastic about singing in masks, but gave their consent when they were told that the masks would be adapted in whatever way they required.

When Christine heard about that, a feeling of dread entered her mind. She saw what potential use that might have, should Erik choose to make an appearance, but she couldn't change the minds of the management in any way. Still, she felt that at least she knew just what to expect.

The program was decided, in the end, to be famous arias only, so that the general public would recognize the particular pieces. There were twelve soloists in total, who would be performing some of the most well-known and well-loved pieces of the standard operatic repertoire in an all-night-long program that would be spectacular, or so the advertisements claimed.

Carlotta, who had a broader but more limited voice than Christine, picked her own parts to be the more dramatic ones, to display her "maestoso" voice and would sing from Aida, Giulio Cesare, Il Trovatore and Così fan tutte, among others – and, to mock Christine, perhaps, the Moon Song from Rusalka, which everyone knew very well.

Christine saw the attempt to compete with her and didn't care about it. Carlotta didn't concern her, nor did these diva squabbles. She dreaded the moment when Erik would appear; she had convinced herself that he would and that he would watch the concert.

She was also given the choice to pick her own songs and so she chose those close to her heart at the moment; Elvira from I Puritani, Micaela from Carmen, the title role from Linda di Chamounix; all songs that were sad but not filled with mourning, all of love and despair. And, at the urging of the management, she took up the most famous opera aria of all, the raging storm of the Queen of the Night, to be the grand finale of the entire concert.

Of course, not all the most famous works were simply arias – duets, trios and a few choruses were to be a part of the performance as well. And in that, Carlotta saw a chance to finally deliver the killing blow to her younger colleague and requested the song of the veil from Don Carlos – a piece for a mezzo-soprano, but one that the diva's voice could handle through its sheer power (or so she believed). The chorus was not a problem. But the page, Tebaldo, who was to sing with her, the very same role Christine had rejected due to Erik's fury, was now being offered to her, for Carlotta threatened to walk out on them if Christine didn't accept.

She didn't make a fuss out of it; she accepted. Why refuse? But in return, she asked for the "honor" of singing the Flower Duet from Lakmé with Carlotta. The Spanish diva, who didn't have the role in her repertoire and had the darker voice, accepted for this time. After all, it couldn't top her crushing revenge in the form of the grand aria of Eboli.

And so each day, Christine felt more and more like Olympia from Offenbach's opera, whose song she was performing as the opening number; a pretty singing doll, only to be winded up and admired. Anxiety was bubbling within her, because she could almost feel Erik's presence during the rehearsals, and perhaps the others felt it as well, for they were working more efficiently than ever.

And whenever she sang their duet from La Bohéme with Piangi during rehearsal, she felt that during the night, Erik's voice was singing the replying lines to her.


	36. Chapter 36

Long time, no see! But the update is here and we are certainly nearing the end of this story, sad as it may be! Woo-hoo!

X X X

**Chapter XXXV**

X X X X X

A thousand times, he had considered reaching her prior to the event. Erik, however, was hardly like that. He was the night, the shadow – and in the shadows he stayed, watching and waiting. He had secured the purchase of an apartment in Sydney before ever arriving in the great city – hotels were tedious. You had to be visible, much too visible, and he had ample money to secure himself a comfortable and, above all else, private living. Besides, there was no doubt in his mind that he would have eventually acquired a flat or house in the city, as the resident opera house was the most renowned one in the world, not only because of its unquestionable quality, but also because of the architectural achievement it presented.

In a sense, it seemed that Christine had agreed to go truth with the concert as a way of creating a neutral ground on which they could interact. That was a sly and cunning move; likely, she hadn't fully realized the consequences of such an act. But it was also a reasonable proposition, and not one to be rejected. Besides, the small chamber performance – what it was supposed to have been – was currently shaping up to be one of the most anticipated events of the year. Everyone of any kind of importance in the world of music would be there.

And, of course, the more sensation-oriented media were already wondering whether he would appear there as well. Oh, naturally! How grandiose a revelation, how great an opportunity! And the idea of no one recognizing him nonetheless was charming. But Erik had no actual intention of appearing for a ravenous crowd. He loathed crowds, and if there had never been the need to acquire some necessities for himself, he would never have even allowed them to hear a single note of his music. What had they done to deserve it? But he had craved wealth, if nothing else, and made certain that society was being properly taxed for all its wrongs and all that he had been faced with.

Even angels didn't sing for free; especially when they had no sheet music to sing from.

In Christine's absence, he had managed to complete Don Juan triumphant. But he remained resolved not to ever show his masterpiece of two decades to anyone. Not even Christine. Especially not Christine, as she would have been more frightened of him than she already was. Poor, naïve Christine. So easily broken, so willing to be filled with kindness. In her quest to bring happiness to all, she had inadvertedly brought misery to herself.

When he saw her during the rehearsals, her face was ashen, pale, though still undeniably lovely. She was so close that the madness threatened to take over his senses and many a time he contemplated simply carrying her away. It would not be so difficult, though the fact that she was now famous presented somewhat of a problem. But what then? Certainly she would stay with him. But only because she had no other choice! Doomed, doomed to remain the caged nightingale, singing to he monster in his moments of madness and despair.

Poor Christine. And she pitied him for his lot in life! She would never be lacking in anything. He was prepared to do anything in the world for her, virtually anything, if she would only stay. It was like a disease spreading through him, the heat of it almost touching even his cold death's flesh, the feverish thoughts threatening to drive him mad. It was the pinnacle of inspiration and agony. Only when she was gone did Erik realize to the full extent of the words that he loved her completely, her presence, her childishness and her divine voice.

Cruel Pandora. She had eliminated the greatest obstacle between them only to place another there – distance. But that was more easily overcome than the involvement of the boy with such a _perfect_ face.

He had abandoned the thought that she and Nadir might have plotted this spectacular escape and the spectacle to back him into a corner. Christine wasn't like that. Christine was pure. And there wasn't only fear in her eyes when she always surveyed her surroundings during rehearsal, watching, perhaps, for some glimpse of the shadow that always followed her. It was almost amusing.

Did she think him that clumsy? Unless he wished to be seen, he could have been standing next to her and she would never be the wiser.

He listened to her practice the songs with what coaches and accompaninists the theater could provide. Her choices were daring, but she managed admirably in her conditions. Of course she wasn't as perfect, as flawless as she could have been under his tuition, but she was breathtaking nevertheless.

Whenever she sang _Qui la voce _from I Puritani, the temptation was strongest. To take her away and force her to speak her mind, not run again. Never again. Where could she run, truly? But he had given her to the world, a priceless gem, and taking her away would mean facing the world. Sharing her with them for the moments she was on the stage was tolerable, acceptable.

Anything else wasn't.

The night finally came that anyone that was anyone appeared in their most lavish and expensive outfits at the opera house, Venetian-styled masks in their hands and on their faces, laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Even the press seemed to have acquired a small mask or to for the occasion.

Christine, unknowingly, had paid a certain cruel homage to him. She wouldn't understand what it felt like to have a mask make her face complete.

_He_ remained hidden from the crowds, having arrived at the opera house hours before the performance, to see her practice, to silently give her confidence and to ready himself for what was to come. For if Christine rejected him in this final moment, he would have exhausted his reasons to live. His opera was finished; his student had brought vocal perfection to the world. But the finale of such a grand tragedy had to be equally big, equally splendorous.

It would be a pity about the chandelier, though. It wasn't the worst he had ever seen. But currently, it was attached in a way that could be easily controllable for him. If Christine Daaé said no, lives would be lost. He didn't care one bit. He would likely die of grief himself before they did.

So ends the tale that should have never begun.

No matter. There were other things of importance to be taken care of that evening.

He watched as the artists casually butchered up completely wonderful pieces of music. He cringed when Carlotta killed the song that he had yet to hear Christine sing in her new production. In her lavish and over-the-top costume, Carlotta Giudicelli resembled a multicolored fruit and a bar wench more than a soprano of world-class, which she couldn't claim to be.

And then, Christine appeared, in a light cream-colored evening gown, the complete opposite of Carlotta in her lavish stage costume. She was an angel stranded on earth and the moment she opened her mouth and a glorious sound came out, it seemed that heaven had been brought to the earth when she couldn't sprout her wings again and ascend above the clouds.

Even _he_ was very near being transfixed by the mere sound of her soaring song, though there was a dampness in his eyes. She was exquisite, her voice divine; a true angel. The world didn't deserve; he himself scarcely deserved her. His only saving grace was that he was the only one who could enhance her perfection even more and redefine the limits of art through her and his music. She was singing the song of a madwoman reminiscing about what things had been like when she had been with her beloved and not burdened by the conventions of her time and the strict desires of her family.

Would she end up mad, in time? There wouldn't be second escapes. There would be either acceptance… or death. Either way, every opera had to have an ending. With a twinge of momentarily terror, he remembered that not all operas had a happy ending. Most of them didn't. But of course, Christine was stronger than a romantic heroine of the classic operas. She had rejected _that boy_; she had forsaken almost her whole life… _for him._ And she hadn't died when she saw!

No; there had been enough time to mourn and to wait. There was a decision to make and Christine would have to make it now, whether she was ready or not. Hadn't he had enough patience? Hadn't he been considerate enough? He, who had given Christine the means of showing her a piece of heaven to the unworthy world, who had changed her life in a way that showed her, deserved at least that – to know that.

The true moment of triumph, however, came afterwards. The applause that followed the final note of the aria was unparalleled; most of the audience didn't even wait for the orchestra to finish the final instrumental part of the aria, standing up spontaneously on their own accord. At that moment, Erik felt pride. He had seen her sing many times now, always stupendous, but this time, she had done this on her own. She had the strength to be a diva in her own right… though he would have to steer that strength, so that it wouldn't carry her away from him. That he could not abide.

He had given her wings to fly, not to flee.

Arguably, the worst part of the concert was the moment she had to sing with Carlotta. Piangi was tolerable – at least he seemed to have some sort of joy in hearing the music and recognized when he was outmatched. Thus the duet he sang with Christine was somewhat more submissive than it should have been. When Christine sang the higher voice in her duet with Carlotta, it was also almost bearable, though the older diva tried to glorify her part as much as she could, thereby ruining most of the song.

The true trial was the second duet with Carlotta, or rather, the aria where Christine sang the higher voice for a moment when the chorus joined in.

Oh, he had something special prepared for that particular aria. You could not sing a song about a veiled, masked beauty without someone who knew more about masks than anyone else in the world to interject somewhat.

Christine tried to make the most of her little interjection in the aria. Again, Carlotta was attempting to drown her voice by the sheer broadness of her tones, but it was proving next to hopeless. And the more the diva tried, the less she focused on producing her own notes evenly, which turned out to be a very bad strategy. She still hit the notes, but they sounded shrill, like a cold wind, and wheezed equally so.

They got through the prima volta without any kind of incident. But during the seconda volta, at the moment when the chorus and the page were to hit a low note, so that Eboli could show off her top A, something unprecedented happened. Instead of the perfect tone Carlotta had in mind, something akin to the sound of a frog that had just been stepped on came out of her throat.

The orchestra stopped playing. The chorus almost started muttering quietly amongst themselves. Carlotta looked white as chalk, but cleared her throat and tried again.

To the same result.

The third time was no better and by then, a few of the dignified faces in the audience had turned into mild snickers. This was the event of the year – all notable television stations were here, papers and radios including. This transmission would go around the world.

Carlotta ran off the stage – very peculiar in comparison to her usual storming off – and Christine could swear she saw tears on her face. Be they of rage or of embarrassment, she didn't know.

There was a moment of very awkward silence in the auditorium. Christine was the only one who by now had an idea of what was going on and she swallowed, hard. This was the work of only one person – there was certainly nothing wrong with Carlotta's throat.

He was here.

A shiver ran through her, but she stood straight as a candelabra, waiting for some kind of instruction. The managers backstage were ready to faint, she could imagine. The conductor, too, felt the sweat pouring down his temple. With the diva gone, how were they supposed to finish the damned aria? There was no way he could just call off the soprano and chorus like that. It would only be even more embarrassing.

And then, next to his ear, a voice that could have only been sent by divine intervention whispered: _"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir."_

The conductor looked around him, but no one from the audience had leaned in to say those words. Besides, the voice had been… perhaps it was simply his own delusion. But the voice was correct – the soprano knew the lines and the music, certainly, as she had the same lines and her vocal line had been only a third above Carlotta's.

What he couldn't understand, though, was why she was searching for something with her eyes rather than looking at him for instruction.

"Miss Daaé!" There was no helping it – he had to call out to her, and, thankfully, she turned her attention back to him, as if a whip had cracked. "From the cadenza, if you please."

For a second, she stared at him as if he were crazy, but then nodded. She sang the entire cadenza perfectly, having heard it a thousand times, especially now that she knew that Erik was watching. It was a bit too heavy for her voice, but it didn't matter. The chorus took over the vocals of Tebaldo, which was no problem for them, as some of the sopranos had the same phrase.

Applause drowned the auditorium.

But as soon as the aria was finished, one of the managers raced to the stage, apologized for the "incident", as he called it, and announced that there would be a ten-minute break before the show would resume.

"We would like to check the technical equipment to find out whether anything is impaired and thus caused Signora Giudicelli´s voice to… malfunction." He said apologetically. "We request your patience. Meanwhile, the services of our bar and restaurant are at your full disposal, ladies and gentlemen. We would also like to thank Miss Christine Daaé for her willingness to handle the situation. Thank you."

The crowds applauded Christine again loudly, and she felt almost deafened by the sound.

Ten minutes. She felt that not even a lifetime would be enough to tell Erik what she wanted to say and to find him.

As she went to her dressing room, she noticed that Carlotta was crying on Piangi´s shoulder, her makeup ruined, her assistants and seamstresses running around her, bringing her anything and everything she needed.

Piangi, too, was giving rather sour looks to the managers, who tried to assure him that they were doing everything in their power to find the source of the technical anomaly, for there was clearly _no way in the world_ that Carlotta's golden voice could have broken and broken so horribly.

In her dressing room, Christine prepared for the final few arias alone. She took off her white and silver mask, rearranged her hair somewhat. But all this was done with an air of anxiety. She was getting paranoid.

_What do you intend to do, Erik? To return the hurt by destroying my concert? Would you do the same to my voice?_ But she shook her head. No; he had created her voice – he wouldn't destroy it just out of sheer spite.

Besides… he loved her. That sent more of a shiver down her spine than even his gaze could.

Because she… if she loved him… if she didn't, why should she care? Why would she tremble? Why would she… miss him and damn herself each day for casting him back into the cage of loneliness. She had the capacity for loving him – why couldn't she simply…?

On her vanity table, her phone rang.


	37. Chapter 37

Two whole months.

(SHOCK)

Anyway, three chapters to go, which is quite good. Hopefully, this will be done by the time my semester is finished, but exams are bound to keep me busy.

X X X

**Chapter XXXVII**

X X X X X

For a moment, Christine was afraid, stunned, even, but then she remembered that Erik had no means of knowing what her new phone number was. Fortunately, she was right this time. The number of the caller was clearly displayed on the small screen of the phone and she was familiar with the person.

"Christine, it's me." The soothing but somehow hushed voice of her foreign friend spoke without a pretext once she pressed the yes button. "Where are you?"

"Nadir!" It was as if a ton of rocks had fallen off her heart. She was afraid that the Iranian hadn't received her invitation or had decided against it. She thought it only fair to invite him to the concert when he was a friend of Erik's – or, at least, the closest thing to a friend Erik might claim to have. Besides, as the star of the show, she was entitled to a few free tickets. Hopefully, though, Erik wouldn't mind too much if he saw the self-proclaimed daroga here. "You're here, then? You got the ticket?"

"Yes, and we are fortunate in that." Nadir said, sounding almost tired. He, too, was wary of what might happen if Erik were to find out of his presence. Unlike Christine, he was completely certain that the croaking incident of Signora Giudicelli had been a prank courtesy of his old friend, who was by now no doubt congratulating himself on his own wit and intelligence. And from somewhere nearby, too. "I take it you've already noticed that my guess a few weeks ago was correct."

_So it _is_ him…_ Christine felt strangely excited at that prospect, though it wasn't necessarily a good kind of excitement. It was more like the adrenaline rush before proceeding to jump out of an airplane… with a parachute, hopefully. Hopefully. "Do you have any idea where he is?"

"A thousand, one unlikelier than the other." Nadir said easily, tiredly.

"Will he… do you think that he would…?"

"I'm certain that Erik is proud enough not to damage anything he has helped create without a good reason, which applies to your performance as well. I would worry after you finish singing."

"You do know that there is a sociable after the concert, don't you?" Christine asked slowly. She personally supposed that Erik would likely wait until after the concert itself before taking any decisive action. After all, it was best to inflict damage there, before the crowds.

"_That_ is what I'm afraid of. I'll try to get closer to you then and we can talk. For now, break a leg, otherwise Erik might do that to some others."

"Yes… thank you."

"Whatever else might be the truth, remember that he loves you. I don't claim to understand him, but if you play on that card, it seems he would forgive you anything."

"I hardly want to blackmail him, Nadir. I…" She was initially against saying such things, because she intended to say it to Erik first, but in this case, she had to practice saying it when not under the scorching fires of his eyes. "I love him as well."

"Mademoiselle, you are a remarkable person for being able to do so. However, I believe the hardest part will be convincing him of the matter."

X X X X X

Many things happened during the pause, most of which dealt with music or the like. Since Carlotta clearly wouldn't be performing for the rest of the night, the management quickly consulted the conductor for what they might have performed in place of her arias. By the time Christine entered the main hall again, people were running around with stacks of sheet music for the various players in need of them and the conductor quickly grabbed the star of the show to hastily ask her if she had any other arias in her current repertoire that matched that of the opera.

The opera house didn't have Un ballo in maschera in their current repertoire, but they had Figaro, fortunately, and so the second aria of Susanna was fetched from the music archives in what could be considered the quickest swap of repertoire on the planet. The person responsible for bringing the sheet music was clearly breaking some record in running.

As for the other songs, they quickly fetched the ending chorus from the Magic Flute (which was more sheets of music than Christine could even see) – the chorus wasn't entirely pleased with having to sing a different piece than planned, more specifically, more things than planed, but they obliged under several threats of a lower salary.

The final change in songs was pure luck – among the soon-to-be-premiered productions, Die Fledermaus was featured, so they had the sheet music for the one song from the operetta Christine had performed quite a long time ago, but still remembered the words of. And, though Christine tried to protest, they pawned the aria O patria mia from Aida Carlotta was supposed to sing off on her, the conductor handing her the sheet music with an almost unbalanced look in his eyes. This was the last chance they had to set things right.

In the end, it ended much more fortunately than they supposed. The chorus did well; Christine's duet with Piangi proceeded without any interruptions (save for when the tenor proceeded to do some flowery cadenzas at places they had agreed about). The other artists also did their part quite well. Christine sang her songs, including Mein Herr Marquis, to thunderous applause.

It was the Aida aria that worried her greatly. She felt like a schoolgirl that had been sent to the school stage to announce to a rowdy crowd that the spectacle they had paid for was not going to be performed after all.

Aida was a notoriously famous and terribly difficult opera, the lead part especially tricky, and those who didn't have what it took to sing it were usually booed off the stage before they sang two phrases. Moreover, it was a great paradox that a Nubian slave would be sung by a girl with milky white skin, though a tan was the least of her problems.

The moment she opened her mouth to sing, she thought that it would be no good. But as she began glancing into the sheet music again, before her voice could be heard, she thought she heard the aria in the back of her consciousness, a soft song, a mourning song, sung with all the pain and sadness of the world.

She didn't even realize that she had begun to sing it along with the voice, mirroring its beauty the best she could, trying to understand the meaning behind the Italian words through the beautiful music. If she knew the libretto, she would have hardly needed the sheet music.

_O my country, never more will I see you!_

_Never more, never more will I see you!_

_O blue skies, o sweet native breezes_

_where the morning of my life shone peacefully_

The orchestra had almost stopped playing at that point. The audience was so silent that even a breath would have echoed loudly through the auditorium. And when the aria ended on a high note, the silence stretched on, and Christine was momentarily afraid, because the voice in her mind had stopped.

She didn't even know if it had been Erik helping her thus or if it was simply her own imagination.

She had no idea that, not too far away from her, Erik was crying.

It was certainly not a habit of his to weep, but the pure joy of the knowing that it was _Christine_ who had created such beauty was breathtaking. And the crowd began to roar with applause, forgetting quickly the sadness that the aria had brought, celebrating something they had no true concept of.

Christine bowed, timidly, almost, as if she couldn't believe that she had actually caused that. And what was most wonderful was to see that her eyes were once more searching for him. Without removing his mask, Erik wiped his eyes.

Two more arias, courtesy of Christine, and the crowd couldn't even control its applause any longer. And when the final note of the final song faded away into nothingness, the young soprano was practically showered with flowers. She was simply bowing modestly, as if unsure what to do.

When the curtain fell, her colleagues rushed out to congratulate her and shower her with questions.

Once the auditorium was empty, stagehands hurriedly ushered the guests to another large hall that had been decorated specifically for the purpose of this sociable, this ball-like celebration that was to take place late into the night.

Erik was actually somewhat nervous, but only momentarily. No one knew his face and he didn't speak to anyone, so no one knew his voice. But still, he felt somewhat exposed, even in the perfection of his disguise.

He was dully aware of the daroga´s presence and kept out of his way, for the time being. He had no wish to speak with Nadir now.

The performers entered as well, now in clean, fresh clothes and masked themselves, though everyone knew them when they arrived, as it was announced by the eager management. Only Carlotta was missing – Piangi had deigned it important enough to come, despite his lover's protests.

It was when Christine entered that the hustle and bustle of the crowd stopped in one moment of thunderous applause. The soprano modestly thanked everyone, but for once, Erik didn't join in the clapping. Even in the costume, Christine looked like a complete angel.

Her hair was pinned up this time, which was a bit unusual for her, but combined with the sky blue dress and jewels of small pearls she was wearing, she was a vision of purity and beauty. When the first crowd of men rushed forward to beg her for a dance, Erik felt the urge to remind them that a lasso was not merely a tool for taming animals in bad American movies.

Surprisingly, _the boy_ was nowhere to be seen and Christine didn't appear to be waiting for him or for anyone to be her escort. Her eyes found the daroga and she momentarily excused herself from her admirers to talk to him.

It was very easy to guess what they were speaking off and Erik found himself mildly irritated by the presence of the daroga. Of course the poor fool had no chance of keeping him from Christine! But what did they hope to accomplish? Were they teaming up on him? Was this some kind of foul plot?

But when Christine turned back to the crowds, he dispersed such thoughts. Christine simply wasn't capable of such thoughts. She was nothing less than the perfect innocent.

Amidst the general dancing that started, she remained one of the few who danced very little and paid even less attention to most of her companions. It was only natural, of course, though Erik felt a kind of pride at knowing that she was searching for him and only for him.

In the midst of the crowds, it was ironic that unless he spoke or sang, no one noticed him at all. This was certainly a first.

Christine was nervous, though she didn't show it much. She wondered where Erik was, because she knew he was there – she constantly had the feeling of being watched, though not in a displeased manner this time.

Was that good? Did it mean he would speak to her? She didn't know.

But it was getting tiresome, whooshing away all the men who wanted to speak with her and dance with her, along with all the women who wanted to chatter away about pleasant niceties, which were of no consequence to her, only for the purpose of befriending her.

All of these guests were the elite, though, so she couldn't simply brush them away.

"Gentlemen, may I cut in?" a different, sharp voice literally cut through the conversation the crowd around her led amongst itself. Christine would have said something, but caught herself staring a moment later.

It was Erik; yet it wasn't. It was undoubtedly Erik's cat-like eyes and ethereal voice, but it couldn't actually be him. He was once more dressed in all black, but only a white half-mask, pearl-like and flawless, covered part of his face… the rest was as natural and flawless as that of a normal man's, so she was certain it couldn't be him. It had to be some illusion, without a doubt.

But then, Erik presented her with a single blood-red rose, wrapped neatly in a satin bow of pitch-black. Christine took his hand without even realizing it and allowed herself to be led away from the generally stunned and whispering crowd that had gathered around her. Only once the music resumed – one of the more known waltzes – did she regain her voice.

"Erik?"

She could _sense_ the amusement in his voice. "Yes?"

"Is this real?" she asked, though a more accurate question would have been if she hadn't been drugged somewhere along the line.

"This is a masked ball, my dear. Of course you shouldn't believe your eyes too much."

"Are you here to punish me?" Her voice wavered a bit, even though she had thought she could handle it.

Erik seemed to be considering it for a moment, before replying with a resolute no. "Do you view my saying that I will worship you until the end of time and beyond as punishment?" He had intended to be the harsh angel of music, but after her performance… he couldn't. it was impossible to punish her for such beauty.

And, for the first time in months, uncertainly, Christine tried to smile. she didn't know what had happened or what was to happen, but she had the courage, now, at last, and she had better make use of it before it would evaporate.

"I wish you would do things simply at times and just tell me that you love me, so that I could reply the same."


	38. Chapter 38

This chapter was very long in the making, mostly because I have had the hugest writer's block regarding this fic. The chapter kept being written, crossed out and rewritten at least a dozen times before I got it right. A huge kudos to those who stuck around and waited around for it! Also, I finally have an ending ready for this story, so there will be one more chapter plus an epilogue. I know I promised this to be done sooner, but I've had some really hectic times recently, so… heh.

But I haven't forgotten the story and it will be finished by the end of august! I promise that.

X X X

**Chapter XXXVIII**

X X X

Before Christine could even understand what she had so easily said, she felt a grip on her wrist; she was being led away from the floor and away from the main hall of the opera. Erik led her through the corridors as if he knew them by heart – which wasn't unlikely – until they reached a sideways terrace out of sight of the main area.

"Erik!"

Finally, the tight hold on her wrist vanished, but before she could rub the rose spot, she felt two matching grips a few inches below her shoulders. "Say it again... say it again, Christine!" two almost wild yellow eyes implored her.

Christine winced as she felt herself being shaken ever so slightly. "Erik, you're hurting me!"

"Say what you did a moment ago and I will lessen the grip… but I will never let you go again, Christine, never." Erik said quietly, almost feverishly, but he wasn't nearly as frightening as he had been on other occasions. There was something… different in his expression, from what she could see, not unlike what had been there when he had confessed his love for her. But this time, it wasn't nearly so morose, so desperate.

It was… hope.

"Erik, that isn't how a relationship works! I…" There was no sense denying it; Christine realized that if she did, they would be running around in circles forever. And she was tired of running away from everything. "I might have said it, yes, but I didn't mean that I wanted things to be as they were!

"Then how do you want things to be?" Erik asked, as if this was a completely civilized discussion. His mind was still struggling to process the wonderful moment when Christine said she loved him; not directly, no, but the implication couldn't have been any clearer. "Request, demand, order; but you are mine, aren't you, Christine? Just say yes and I promise you everything will be as you wish it, everything." he promised, without even a moment's hesitation.

The pale soprano took a shaky breath. She had always known this moment would come, dreaded it from the very start. And with reason. "I love you, Erik, yes." Seeing that hope shine in his eyes was almost painful, even though she wasn't going to crush it this time. "But I'm also afraid of you even now."

Being observed by Erik so intensely was almost like being under a scanner. "You aren't lying… you would not lie to me." he said after a moment, disbelief coloring his voice. The gentlest tones of his magnetic voice were trying to soothe her, but Christine remained somewhat on edge. Things could change within a second – this was Erik she was speaking with. "Christine, you know that I would never hurt you."

"I don't know; that's the thing. I don't know much about you, Erik, only what little you told me during our interviews." The masked man remained silent, but for different reasons than she might believe. "I might not know too much about love, but I know it's founded on trust…"

Erik was listening only with half an ear. "You saw Erik's face and yet you want to know more…" There was the hint of a smile on his face as he brushed a stray strand of silky hair from her face, the gesture bold when coming from him. "Brave little Pandora. I will tell you whatever you wish to know, but not here and now. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps?"

Erik would have bitten his lip in speculation, but that wasn't a habit of his. He was skating on thin ice, but she said that she loved him, so what was the risk? She had seen his face, after all. "If you came back home with me... home as my wife, Christine…" The soprano's skin was whiter than snow by then. "Then I would tell you everything you want to know."

"Erik, I…" It seemed that with Erik, the words were always destined to remain stuck in her throat. As a career journalist, this was a very bad thing for Christine. "This is… overwhelming…"

"It isn't meant as a prison, Christine." Erik noted before she could bring up that argument. After all, marriage was a promise. Marriage would leave nothing to chance. Marriage would mean that she truly loved him and wasn't afraid of it any longer. "All I ask for is this small proof of your love…"

"Marriage is hardly small proof." Christine stammered out, finally finding her voice.

"From your point of view, perhaps." Erik was fighting with himself whether or not to use his talents to persuade her. Yet he didn't; he wanted Christine to make this decision freely, just as she had freely admitted her love to him. "But I love you completely, Christine, and I will give you the world if you only ask for it…"

Christine was very nearly speechless. She had expected much, but… what else did she expect? "I-I have terms before I accept, Erik." she found herself saying.

Hope so bright it almost blinded her. "Then you accept?"

"Wait a moment and hear me out." Christine shrugged his grip off, taking a step back. This was her choice to make. "I… I will marry you, but I have a few conditions before that happens."

"Anything you want, Christine. Ask for the world and you will have it." Erik said without hesitation. Considering who he was, Christine was almost inclined to believe this statement, outrageous as it might seem. If he wanted, he could give her everything she had ever dreamed of. But that wasn't what she meant.

"I don't want the world. I want… I want to have freedom, Erik. I understand that you are distrustful of feelings considering… but making someone your prisoner isn't the way to earn their love."

Erik knew no other way; he had never known love, love of any kind, but if she was willing to give this even the smallest chance, he was more than happy to learn. He had always been a quick student. "Christine, if you become my wife, I promise you will never feel like a prisoner."

Christine looked up, her voice firmer than she felt. "Do you trust me, then?"

"I trust you to keep this promise, Christine." She would never quite understand how the ring, a simple, undecorated band of purest gold, appeared in his hand, but she understood its meaning well enough. An engagement ring, prepared in advance. He had intended to do this all along. "Will you keep it?"

The former journalist and avid fiction reader gave a weary smile "Shouldn't this be taking place after some sort of clichéd romantic dinner when we would have to pay ten pounds just to get rid of the irritating violinist at our table?"

She was making light of the situation; that meant she wasn't scared any longer. That meant that there was a chance of her accepting. Though the mask Erik was wearing couldn't convey a true smile, his voice certainly could. "Nonsense, my dear. He would pay _us_ ten pounds for his life if he was irritating us. Make that at least twenty."

Christine gave a shaky laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. They would have some catching up to do on personal history soon after this. was this some kind of oath of secrecy – become my wife to learn my history or something like that? "I want to live my life, Erik. I cannot live yours for you. That is my greatest condition." she said gently… and she accepted the ring, sliding it onto her finger.

"You've made a list, I see." Erik noted with attempted dryness, but his mind was too filled with joy to execute it correctly. She had accepted… accepted… "Were you expecting this?"

"Minus the proposal, yes." Christine confirmed. She had been preparing herself for this conversation for quite some time, after all. Then, as she had the advantage of having a list, she decided to add a few demands. "And I would like to ask you to tolerate my friends, particularly Meg…"

"Your Megaera is the reason I have discovered your voice, Christine." Erik noted, giving the photographer the nickname of the goddess of fury and vengeance he had picked out for her upon their first "meeting". Meg didn't bother him much, as long as he didn't have to make conversation with her. "I will do my best to tolerate her."

"…and Raoul." Christine saw the dark look pass through Erik's eyes, even though he did his best to disguise it. "He is my friend as well, Erik."

Involuntarily, Erik could feel himself twitch. Christine had just agreed to marry him, he reminded himself. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. "As long as you wear your ring, you can meet the boy." he conceded after a moment of internal battle. "But you'll forgive me if I won't join you on that meeting."

Christine nodded. "Agreed. That leaves one last thing, then."

"If that involves a tea party with your colleagues, I kindly decline."

Finally, the blonde smiled, feeling her body relaxing, as if a ton had been lifted from her shoulders. "Nothing like that. I want you to sing with me, Erik. In public, on stage." she clarified.

There was a moment of silence and a calculative look before Erik's tone changed. "Are you mocking me, Christine?" he asked, slightly hurt. "You have no right to ask that of me."

"As your fiancée, I have every right." Christine countered, feeling brave for the moment. She had logic on her side this time.

"Fiancée…" As he repeated that word in a voice that suggested deepest yearning and lifelong dreams come true, Christine almost forgot what she wanted to achieve.

"You have managed to do this much…" Her hand rose to the unmasked side of his face. For a moment, she was expecting it to be true, that it was actual skin, flawless, as the rest of him was… but when she felt it, it was cold, slightly leathery. Rubber or something of the sort. Never believe your eyes. "I… I almost thought…"

"Miracles hardly happen, Christine." Erik said, but his voice wasn't nearly as bitter as it would have been minutes ago. "So far, I have only encountered one in my lifetime, and that is standing before me."

The soprano tried not to blush and so she shook her head fervently. "It doesn't matter. But I want a person as my husband, not a shadow. And you can prove to be the former if you come with me now and sing in front of those people. You won't even have to take off your mask." she assured Erik, remembering the occasion of this masquerade. It was the perfect chance for them.

"And what do you intend to sing, my dear?" Erik challenged. Certainly, Christine had learned several operatic roles by then, but it was likely that she wanted something she hadn't yet sung that night. "You have been learning arias, mostly, and whatever orchestra you might manage to scramble will hardly have the appropriate sheet music for whatever is your intention for us to sing."

"We will sing from La Bohéme." Christine said. She was ready for this question. She knew the answer already. "You said once that it was one of your favorites, didn't you?"

Erik gave a curt nod. "I did."

"It happened to be my father's favorite opera as well." Christine explained, "Ever since I was little, we sang from it together. If you know your music, then I know mine." She had already sung the famous duet O soave fanciulla with Piangi that evening, so she knew it. that was what she wanted to repeat, along with the two arias before it. "Act one, from Che gelida manina." she suggested, looking at Erik.

The composer studied her for several long moments. It was true, she had been offered the part of Mimi, but one duet wasn't nearly enough to pull this off. Besides, the aria she had chosen was difficult. "Christine, you must have sung it years ago. You know it takes practice to sing any piece."

"With the Angel of Music at my side, I cannot fail." Christine gave a brilliant smile, remembering how she had gotten through the Aida aria with just his voice guiding her. They could do this.

Erik raised an eyebrow delicately; even the mask managed to show that much. "Since when have you grown into a diva, my dear?"

"If you tell me I cannot do it, then I won't do it." Christine promised.

This had to be considered blackmail by some law. Of course she could do it; she was an angel in human form. She could sing anything, possibly even something written for a mezzo. "You know that it is within your range and capability."

"Then you will come sing with me!"

"Christine…" Erik began warily, wearily. But he knew that he couldn't refuse her anything. He hadn't refused her the sight of his cursed face; he certainly couldn't refuse her this.

"Please, Erik." Christine implored him, taking off her mask to make her sincere expression visible. She really wanted to do this; to show the world what they could do together. "Make this my wedding gift if you must, but come with me. Please."

Erik closed his eyes for a moment. He was losing the battle and he knew it, but his rationality was telling him that it was a bad idea. Not only would it be a revelation, but possibly, he would lose his cutting edge marketing strategy; the mystery of his nature. "Why do you want this, precisely this?"

"Because…" There was only one thing to say, one reason to give. No longer was it difficult to get the words out. "Because I love you and I want to show that to everyone."

"They don't deserve to know… they need not to." Erik whispered, taking the now bejeweled hand with an almost indecent amount of care. As if it was made of glass that would shatter upon the faintest contact.

"Erik, a year ago, I would have fainted at the thought of performing on a community college stage, let alone here, in Sydney." Christine explained patiently, looking him in the eyes. He deserved this, even if this would be the only chance he ever got. "You are ten times better than I and yet you have never tried."

"You dismiss your own talent. I consider that evidence that you aren't yet a hopeless diva like Ms. Guidicelli."

"Will you do it, then?"

"Christine…."

But whatever words were at the tip of his tongue were meant to remain unsaid, at least for the time being; Erik heard the footsteps before they even became audible to Christine and by the time the soprano turned to see who it was, Nadir Khan was within sight, slightly breathless. Obviously, he had fought his way through a crowd and had searched for her through the entire opera house.

"Miss Daaé! By Allah, Erik! You're here!" the Iranian added, spotting the tall dark-clad man.

"Thank you for reminding me of that fact, daroga." Erik noted dryly as his manager and friend struggled to catch his breath. "Obviously, you are overjoyed to see me."

Surprisingly, Nadir managed a grin. "Actually, I'm ecstatic. This is the first time I managed to catch you since all those years ago in Russia."

"Russia?"

Erik dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "A story for another time, Christine. Certainly not now." he said soothingly, knowing that she would understand.

"Are you all right, then, Miss Daaé?" Nadir asked, concerned.

"She is completely fine, daroga, and she will be for the rest of her life." Erik noted, his voice strangely devoid of his usual irritation. That was peculiar; usually, he was at least mildly irritated to have Nadir "meddle in his affairs" as he liked to call it.

It was enough to make the self-proclaimed daroga suspicious. "What is that supposed to mean, Erik?"

With a gentleness that was almost unnatural for Erik, the masked man glanced once more at Christine. He seemed to be smiling, if one was to tell the emotion from his voice. "You may tell him, if you wish, my angel."

"Erik has agreed to sing with me on stage." Christine noted brightly, looking slightly feverish but also feverishly happy about something.

Nadir frowned slightly. "Are you certain about that?" he asked, knowing Erik's temper and the amount of things that could go horribly wrong with this idea.

"I meant that you should tell him about our engagement, Christine." Erik clarified, though it couldn't be clearer that he very much enjoyed announcing this little fact himself.

Nadir, for his part, was thoroughly flabbergasted. "Engagement?" he repeated, glancing from one to the other. The girl didn't seem to be eager to deny it and he certainly hadn't seen Erik look so… at peace. Never before, actually. Then it was the truth? "When? How?"

Erik finally seemed at least slightly annoyed, which assured Nadir that he wasn't having a peculiar dream. "Now and naturally, daroga."

"Miss Daaé, you've agreed to this?"

Christine gave a single, firm nod. "I have. Under several conditions." she added, glancing at Erik momentarily. There was wariness in her eyes… but also love. That wasn't something even Erik's voice could simply fabricate. It was the truth, then.

"Which shall be fulfilled to the letter." Erik proclaimed immediately, the pressure on Christine's hand tightening just for a fraction of a second. "I would like to try and talk you out of the last one nevertheless."

"Erik, tonight is a night of masks. No one will suspect anything. Please. I promise I will handle whatever reporters come swarming at us afterwards." Christine offered. As a former reporter herself, she knew all the tricks they might try to employ.

"I believe that is Nadir's job, my dear."

"And I so appreciate being told of this so much in advance." Nadir commented quickly, with enough sarcasm to make Erik proud, if Erik was proud of such things. Then, just for good measure, he turned to Christine one last time. "Miss Daaé, are you certain this is what you want?"

By then, Erik was mildly irritated and his dangerously golden eyes narrowed as they pierced the Iranian. "Why wouldn't she, daroga? Speak your mind, I ask you."

"Erik, I know you too well not to suspect any kind of foul play from your part. You know that Christine has been going through a lot of stress throughout these last few weeks." Nadir reminded him. Whatever was stressful enough to make a young girl run from not only the country but the whole continent was enough to make him doubt this judgment.

"And you have effectively lied to me when you said you had no idea where to find her." Erik noted darkly, his eyes accusing.

"He hasn't." Christine interjected immediately "It was always me calling him when we spoke."

But even though Erik was almost deliriously happy with how events were turning out, saying things like this equaled pouring oil into the fire. "Always? I think you and I will have things to discuss after tonight, daroga. About loyalties to your employers and possible dismissal."

"Erik, please. We all needed this, I think. Everything will be all right now." Christine said quietly, still holding his hand. "I love you, you know that."

"As long as you keep saying it, I think I actually believe you." And believe he did; the ring on her finger was sufficient proof of that.

"Wonderful."

Nadir gave a faint cough to clear his throat. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but once people find out you're missing, hell will break out."

Christine nodded briskly, in an almost business-like fashion. "You're right. Nadir, could you please help me with this?" she asked. "We need to go see the managers and ask them to organize the orchestra for us once more."

"Do you really think they would do such a thing?" Nadir asked, in a final attempt to cast doubt onto this idea.

However, Christine gave a determined smile. "Oh, yes. I believe it to be more than likely, considering the situation."


End file.
